The Hoffman Group tower loomed over Midtown Manhattan, a giant pillar of glass and steel. Amaris parked the Range Rover on the street and walked through the revolving doors.

The lobby fell silent. The receptionist's eyes widened, a mix of shock and disgust on her face. Amaris ignored her and got into the elevator.

On the 40th floor, the whispers started immediately.

"She actually showed her face..."

"I heard he left her standing there like an idiot..."

"Jalyn is so much prettier anyway..."

Amaris kept her spine straight, her eyes fixed forward. She wouldn't let them see her bleed.

She stepped off the elevator and nearly collided with Perry, Elijah's assistant. The man looked down his nose at her, a sneer twisting his lips.

"He's busy," Perry said, blocking the hallway. "He doesn't have time for your hysterics, Amaris. Go home."

Amaris didn't slow down. She reached into her purse, pulled out the envelope she had written at dawn, and slammed it against Perry's chest.

"Then he doesn't have to see me. That's my resignation. Effective immediately. Tell him to lose my number."

Perry stumbled back, catching the envelope. Amaris walked past him toward her old office.

The door was open. The room was bare.

Her desk was cleared. Her bookshelves were empty. Three cardboard boxes sat on the floor, haphazardly stuffed with her personal items-frames, pens, a dead orchid. They hadn't even packed them properly.

Elijah had erased her completely. Not a single trace of her two years of work remained.

Amaris felt a strange sense of relief wash over her. It was a clean break. No lingering ties. She picked up the boxes, stacking them in her arms.

She took two steps toward the door before the pain hit.

It started as a dull ache in her lower belly, but within seconds, it exploded into a white-hot inferno. It felt like a hand was inside her stomach, twisting her intestines into knots.

Amaris gasped, the boxes slipping from her fingers. They hit the floor with a thud, scattering pens and papers everywhere.

She doubled over, clutching her stomach. Sweat broke out across her forehead, soaking through her blouse. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't stand.

Two coworkers walked by the open door. They glanced at her, crumpled on the floor, then at each other. They quickly looked away and walked faster, their heels clicking hurriedly down the hall.

The pain spiked, a red haze covering her vision. Her knees gave out completely. She hit the carpet, curling into a ball, a low groan escaping her lips.

She was going to die here, on the floor of the office of the man who threw her away.

Suddenly, the world shifted. A pair of strong arms wrapped around her, lifting her off the floor with effortless strength.

The scent hit her first-cedar and cold air, with a faint hint of antiseptic. It was a smell she was beginning to recognize, one that cut through the chaos.

"Amaris!" Cristian's voice was rough, stripped of its usual cool control. He sounded terrified.

She forced her eyes open. His face was inches from hers, his features tight with panic. The icy mask was gone, shattered by raw fear.

He held her against his chest, his grip bruisingly tight. He turned and strode out of the office.

Perry stepped out into the hall, his face pale. "Mr. Lowe, this is Hoffman property-"

Cristian didn't stop. He didn't even look at the assistant. He just threw a glare over his shoulder that made Perry physically recoil, stumbling backward into the wall.

Cristian carried her into the elevator, kicking the emergency button. The doors slid shut.

"NewYork-Presbyterian, now!" he barked into the security camera.

He sank to the floor, keeping her cradled in his lap. He grabbed her hand, squeezing it so hard it hurt, but the pain in her stomach eclipsed everything else.

He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the sweat from her forehead, his movements frantic, uncoordinated. He was murmuring something under his breath, a string of curses mixed with prayers.

Amaris's head lolled against his shoulder. The pain was fading, replaced by a heavy numbness. She could hear his heartbeat, fast and erratic, against her ear.

Just before the darkness pulled her under, she felt a warm hand gently brush the hair from her forehead, the touch lingering for a moment longer than necessary.

The beeping was the first thing she heard. A steady, rhythmic pulse that matched the throb in her abdomen.

Amaris opened her eyes. The room was dim, lit only by the glow of medical monitors. She was in a hospital bed, a thin gown replacing her clothes.

She turned her head. Cristian was sitting in the chair beside her bed, a stack of documents on his lap. His tie was loosened, his jaw shadowed with stubble, and dark circles bruised the skin under his eyes. He looked like he hadn't slept in a week.

He saw her move and instantly dropped the papers. He was at her side in a second, his hand reaching for the call button.

"Wait," Amaris croaked, her throat dry.

Cristian ignored her, hitting the button. Then he poured a cup of water from the pitcher on the nightstand. He slipped a straw between her lips, holding the cup steady while she drank.

The cool water soothed her throat. She took a deep breath, wincing at the pull in her stomach. "What happened?"

"Appendicitis," Cristian said, his voice rough. "It ruptured. They had to operate."

Before she could process that, her phone buzzed on the nightstand. The screen lit up. Elijah.

Cristian glanced at the name. His eyes went cold, the softness from a moment ago vanishing. He picked up the phone and held it out to her.

Amaris stared at it. She wasn't ready, but she needed to hear his voice. She needed to know if the reality matched the nightmare.

She swiped to answer, pressing the phone to her ear.

"Where are you?" Elijah snapped, skipping any greeting. "I've been calling you for hours. I need you at the Whitmore dinner tonight. You need to smile and fix this PR mess."

Amaris felt a wave of nausea that had nothing to do with the anesthesia. He didn't ask if she was okay. He didn't even know she was in the hospital.

"I can't," she whispered.

"You can, and you will," Elijah commanded, his tone dripping with entitlement. "I'm not asking, Amaris. Be at my apartment by six."

The sheer audacity hit her like a physical blow. Before she could respond, a sudden wave of heat washed over her body. The room spun, the edges of her vision going black. The phone slipped from her grasp, clattering onto the mattress.

She groaned, her eyes rolling back as the fever spiked.

Cristian moved like lightning. He took the phone from her. His thumb pressed down on the end-call button with enough force to make the plastic creak. He then calmly placed it face down on the table, his jaw set like stone. He slammed his hand on the call button again.

"Her temperature is spiking!" he yelled at the nurse running in.

The next few hours were a haze of ice and fire. The doctor called it a postoperative absorption fever. They packed her in ice packs, trying to bring the temperature down.

But the person holding the ice packs wasn't a nurse. It was Cristian.

He sat on the edge of the bed, a basin of ice water beside him. He wrung out the cloth and ran it over her burning forehead, down her neck, and across her wrists. He did it over and over, his movements incredibly gentle, a stark contrast to the harsh, ruthless man the world knew.

Amaris drifted in and out of consciousness, her body shivering under the cold cloths. She mumbled in her delirium, fragments of pain and fear spilling from her lips.

Cristian leaned in closer, his face inches from hers. His jaw was clenched, his eyes bright with unshed tears.

"Don't be afraid, Amy," he whispered, his voice breaking. "I'm right here."

The name cut through the fog in her brain. Amy. Only one person had ever called her that. Her father. And he was dead.

But the voice was so real, so close. She tried to open her eyes, to find the source, but the fever dragged her back under.

It was dawn when the fever finally broke. Amaris woke up, her body weak but her mind clear. The room was quiet, the morning light painting streaks across the floor.

Cristian was asleep in the chair beside her. His head was tilted back, his breathing deep and even. He still wore the same clothes, his hand resting on the edge of her mattress, as if he was afraid to let go.

Amaris looked at him, a strange warmth blooming in her chest. She reached for her phone on the nightstand, ignoring the cracked screen.

She saw the missed calls from Elijah. Ten of them. The warmth in her chest turned to ice.

She didn't hesitate. She opened her contacts, scrolled to his name, and hit "Block." It was done with a finality that felt like cutting off a limb, but the relief was immediate.

"Amy," she whispered to herself, the word foreign on her tongue. It had to be a dream. A hallucination born of fever and medication.

Cristian stirred. His eyes fluttered open, and for a split second, she saw it again-that raw, desperate look from the office. But in the blink of an eye, it was gone. The shutters came down, and the cold, composed CEO was back.

"How are you feeling?" he asked, his voice perfectly level.

Amaris stared at him, searching his face for any crack in the armor. "Who is Amy?" she asked bluntly.

Cristian didn't flinch. He didn't blink. He just picked up the water pitcher and poured her a glass. "You must have misheard," he said smoothly. "I said Amaris."

He handed her the water, his expression giving nothing away. The mystery hung in the air between them, thick and unsolvable.

Elijah Hoffman sat behind his massive mahogany desk, staring at the resignation letter in his hand. The paper was slightly crumpled, the signature at the bottom sharp and angry.

He pulled out his phone and dialed Amaris's number again. The number you have reached is no longer in service.

He threw the phone against the wall. It shattered into pieces of plastic and glass.

Perry stood in the doorway, trembling. "Sir, she's moved out of the penthouse. The doorman said she took one bag and left the key."

Elijah stood up and walked to the floor-to-ceiling window, looking out over the city he owned. A cruel smile touched his lips.

"Let her run," he said, his voice echoing in the empty office. "Where is she going to go? She has no money, no name. Who is going to want a discarded bride?"

He turned back to his desk, straightening his cuffs. "She'll be back. They always come back. I'll just wait until she's desperate enough to beg."

His office phone rang. The receptionist said it was Jalyn on line two.

Elijah's face transformed. The hardness melted away, replaced by a sickeningly sweet concern. "Jalyn, sweetheart, how are you feeling? Did the doctor come? I'll be there in twenty minutes, I promise. Don't move."

He hung up, grabbing his jacket. Amaris was an afterthought, a problem to be dealt with later. Right now, his precious Jalyn needed him.

Across town, in the VIP suite of NewYork-Presbyterian, Amaris was taking her first steps.

Cristian stood beside her, his arm wrapped securely around her waist. She leaned into him, her body weak, her bare feet shuffling on the cold linoleum.

She could smell him-cedar and clean laundry, a scent that was quickly becoming her anchor. She stumbled, her toe catching on the hem of her gown.

Cristian caught her instantly, pulling her flush against his side. His grip tightened, his palm pressing flat against her lower back. The heat of his hand seared through the thin fabric.

"Lean on me," he murmured, his voice low and rough. "Don't fall."

Amaris's heart skipped a beat. The feeling of being completely supported, completely protected, was so foreign she didn't know what to do with it. She nodded against his shoulder.

When they got back to the bed, Cristian pulled the rolling table over. On it was a bowl of steaming congee, a far cry from the bland hospital food.

He sat on the edge of the bed, picking up the spoon. He blew on the porridge, the steam curling around his sharp jaw, before bringing it to her lips.

Amaris stared at him. "I can feed myself."

"Humor me," he said, his eyes daring her to argue.

She opened her mouth. The food was warm and soothing, settling her churning stomach. He fed her slowly, blowing on every spoonful, his focus entirely on her. It felt natural, like they had done this a thousand times before.

She watched his profile as he reached for another spoonful. The word was on the tip of her tongue, burning a hole in her mind.

"Amy," she said quietly.

Cristian's hand froze. The spoon hovered in the air for a fraction of a second. He recovered instantly, bringing the spoon to her mouth. "What about it?"

"My father used to call me that," Amaris said, watching him closely. "How do you know that name?"

Cristian didn't miss a beat. "Jeanne must have mentioned it," he said, his tone casual. "She talks about you a lot."

It was a perfect lie. Smooth, logical, and completely unprovable. Amaris wanted to push, but she was too tired.

Cristian's phone buzzed. He stood up, pulling it out of his pocket. "I have to take this."

He walked out onto the balcony, sliding the glass door shut. Amaris watched him through the glass. His posture was rigid, his gestures sharp and commanding. He was dealing with Lowe family business, and he looked like a man ready for war.

Amaris looked away, staring at her hands. She couldn't afford to get distracted by this man. She had a company to save and a mother to destroy.

Outside on the balcony, Cristian hung up the phone. He turned his head slowly, looking through the glass at the woman in the hospital bed. The cold, hard mask slipped, and his eyes filled with a longing so deep it looked like pain.

He would burn the world down before he let anyone hurt her again.