Cayla POV

I woke up to the acrid sting of antiseptic and the rhythmic, monotonous beeping of a machine.

My head felt like it had been cleaved in two with an axe.

I forced my eyes open.

Grafton was standing at the foot of the bed.

He wasn't looking at me with concern.

He was looking at me with a cold, simmering fury.

"You reckless bitch," he spat.

I blinked, trying to clear the heavy fog clouding my vision.

"I... I won."

"You totaled a three-hundred-thousand-dollar McLaren," he said, stepping closer, his voice dropping to a dangerous octave. "And you embarrassed me in front of the Triads. A woman driving my car?"

He gripped the bed rail, his knuckles turning white from the pressure.

"Did you think playing the hero would make me want you? Is that it?"

The accusation hit harder than the airbag had.

"I did it to save your life," I rasped, my throat feeling like it was lined with sandpaper.

"You did it for attention," he corrected icily. "You're obsessed, Cayla. It's pathetic."

He leaned in, his expensive musk cologne mixing nauseatingly with the smell of hospital bleach.

"Let me be clear. I will never love you. You are a tool. A useful one, but merely a tool."

I stared blankly at the ceiling.

I didn't cry.

I had no tears left for him.

"Get out," I said.

Grafton looked surprised by my defiance.

I never spoke back.

Before he could respond, his phone rang.

His expression softened instantly, a transformation so jarring it made my chest ache.

"Cherrelle? Baby, are you okay?"

He listened, nodding intently.

"I'm coming. Don't move."

He hung up and looked at me with renewed annoyance.

"Cherrelle twisted her ankle getting out of the spectator stand. I have to go."

"She twisted her ankle," I repeated flatly, disbelief coloring my tone. "I have a concussion and three broken ribs."

"She's delicate," he said, turning his back on me without hesitation. "You're... durable."

With that, he walked out.

I lay there for an hour.

No nurse came.

Grafton must have ordered them to prioritize the VIP suite upstairs.

I needed water. Desperately.

I tried to sit up, and the room spun violently.

I swung my legs over the edge of the bed.

My knees buckled the moment they took my weight.

I crashed to the floor, my IV line ripping out, blood spattering across the cold linoleum.

I dragged myself to the door, gasping for air, every breath sending shards of glass through my ribs.

I just wanted to find a nurse.

I looked down the hallway.

The door to the VIP suite was ajar.

I saw them.

Cherrelle was sitting on the bed, her foot propped up on a fluffed pillow.

There was not a scratch on her.

Grafton was sitting in a chair next to her.

He was holding a knife and an apple.

He carefully peeled the skin in one long, continuous strip, his movements precise and mesmerizing.

He sliced a piece and fed it to her.

His face was tender.

Gentle.

I had never seen him look like that.

He was capable of love.

Just not for me.

I pulled myself up using the doorframe, gritting my teeth against the agony, and limped back to my bed.

I discharged myself three hours later, signing the forms with a shaking hand.

I limped to the elevator, holding my ribs.

The doors slid open.

Grafton was pushing Cherrelle in a wheelchair.

She saw me, and her eyes narrowed into slits.

"Oh, look, Grafton. She's walking. I told you she was faking it."

Cherrelle stood up from the wheelchair-miraculously healed-and took a step toward me.

Then, with a calculated smirk, she threw herself backward.

She landed on the carpet with a theatrical scream.

"She pushed me! Grafton, she pushed me!"

It was so absurd, so obviously fake.

But Grafton didn't see logic.

He saw red.

He slammed me against the wall.

My head cracked against the plaster, the impact sickeningly loud, reopening the wound from the crash.

Warm blood trickled down my neck.

"Touch her again," Grafton growled, his forearm pressing crushing weight against my throat, "and I will kill you myself."

He scooped Cherrelle up in his arms, treating her like fragile glass.

He stepped over me as I slid down the wall.

He didn't look back.

Cayla POV

The chill in my apartment wasn't just the draft; it was a sterile, quiet cold that settled deep in the lungs.

I sat on the hexagonal tiles of the bathroom floor, the ceramic biting into my skin as I stitched the jagged cut on my forehead. I used a needle and thread scavenged from the first aid kit.

A mob doctor had taught me the trick of it years ago, his hands steady while mine had shaken.

Bite down on a towel, Cayla. It hurts less if you don't scream.

I tied off the knot, my fingers slick with blood, and glanced at Justen's photo propped against the vanity mirror.

"I tried to come to you," I told him, my voice hollow in the empty room. "The car crash was supposed to be it."

My phone rang.

It was Grafton.

"Where are you?"

"Home."

"Get to the bakery on 4th. Cherrelle wants the raspberry torte. The specific one with the gold leaf."

I closed my eyes, the fever throbbing behind my eyelids. "Grafton, it's pouring rain. And it's across the city."

"Did I ask for a weather report?"

The line went dead.

I didn't argue. I didn't have the energy for rebellion. I put on my coat.

I drove through the storm, the windshield wipers fighting a losing battle against the deluge, the rhythm hypnotizing and cruel.

I secured the cake like it was a transplant organ.

I stood outside the penthouse door, shivering, water dripping from the ends of my hair onto the expensive, satin-finish box.

Grafton opened the door.

He looked at me-soaking wet, my skin pale as the ghost I wished I was.

For a second, something flickered in his eyes. Guilt? Or just the discomfort of seeing a broken thing he used to own?

Then Cherrelle appeared behind him.

"Finally!" She snatched the box.

She opened it, took a fork, and ate a bite.

She made a face, wrinkling her nose with theatrical disgust.

"Ew. It's too sweet. I can't eat this."

She dropped the box into the trash can with a careless thud.

"Grafton, tell her to go to the North branch. Theirs is better."

I stood there, swaying slightly as the fever burned through my veins like wildfire.

"Cherrelle," Grafton said, his voice hesitant. "It's a storm out there."

"So?" She pouted, tilting her head. "It's my party tonight. Do you not want me to be happy?"

Grafton looked at her, then at me.

He made his choice.

"Go to the North branch, Cayla."

I went.

By the time I returned, the silence of the drive had been replaced by chaos. The party was in full swing.

Heavy bass thumped through the floorboards, vibrating in my aching teeth.

Capos and soldiers were drinking, laughing, their voices a jagged wall of sound.

I placed the second cake on the table.

My vision was blurring, the room tilting on its axis.

"A toast!" Cherrelle shouted, standing on a chair.

She held up a bottle of amber liquid.

"To Grafton! The King of Chicago!"

She poured a glass and held it to his lips.

"Drink, baby."

I froze.

It was a rare Japanese whiskey.

Grafton was deathly allergic to a specific additive used in that brand's aging process. Justen had told me. It caused anaphylaxis within minutes-a throat closing tight as a fist.

Grafton hesitated. He knew it too.

But everyone was watching.

Cherrelle was smiling, challenging him.

"What's wrong? Don't you trust me?"

Brooks stepped forward, his face tense. "Miss Hughes, the Don shouldn't-"

"Shut up, Brooks!" she snapped. "It's a Loyalty Test. Drink it, Grafton."

Grafton's hand trembled as he took the glass.

He was too proud to refuse in front of his men. He would rather die than look weak.

He raised it to his lips.

I moved.

I didn't think; I just acted. I snatched the glass from his hand.

"What do you think you're doing?" Cherrelle shrieked.

"He's driving later," I lied, my voice raspy. "I'll drink it."

I downed the glass in one swallow.

It burned like acid, searing a path down my throat.

"Another one!" Cherrelle yelled, furious that I had ruined her moment. "If you're so loyal, drink the bottle!"

I poured another glass.

I drank it.

And another.

The room started to spin, faces melting into smears of color.

I finished the bottle and slammed it onto the table.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out his EpiPen and antihistamines, sliding them discreetly into Grafton's palm.

"Take them," I whispered, my words slurring. "Just in case."

Grafton looked at the meds in his hand.

He looked at me, swaying, eyes unfocused.

He didn't see a woman saving his life.

He saw a drunk, jealous ex-assistant making a scene.

"You're a mess, Cayla," he muttered, pocketing the meds.

He turned back to Cherrelle, who was clapping.

I stumbled to the corner and sank into a velvet armchair.

My throat was closing up.

Not from an allergy.

But from the sheer, suffocating weight of loving a ghost in a house of demons.

Cayla POV

The party finally bled out at 3 AM.

I was curled up in the guest room, shivering violently beneath the thin sheets.

The fever from the rain and the shock from the alcohol were warring in my body, leaving me trembling and weak.

The door banged open, shattering the silence.

Grafton stood there, impatiently loosening his tie.

"Get up. Cherrelle needs an escort to her car. She doesn't trust the drivers."

"Grafton, please," I whispered, my voice cracking. "I'm sick."

"You're hungover," he corrected coldly. "Get up."

I dragged myself off the bed, fighting the dizziness that threatened to topple me.

We went down to the lobby.

The hotel lobby had a massive decorative fountain in the center, filled with coins and water kept at a near-freezing temperature to discourage guests from touching it.

Cherrelle was waiting there, looking pristine and untouched by the night's excesses.

She saw me stumbling behind Grafton.

She smiled, a wicked glint lighting up her eyes.

"Oops," she said softly.

She threw herself backward, right over the low wall of the fountain.

Splash.

She screamed, thrashing in the shallow water like she was drowning.

"Help! She pushed me! Cayla pushed me!"

I was ten feet away.

But Grafton didn't care about physics or distance.

He turned on me, his face twisted into a snarl.

"I warned you."

He grabbed my arm and hauled me to the fountain.

"You want her in the water? Then you go in the water."

He shoved me.

I hit the water hard.

It was paralyzing.

I gasped, inhaling water, choking as the icy shock seized my lungs.

"Stay there," Grafton ordered the guards, his voice leaving no room for argument. "Don't let her out until morning. Let her cool off that jealousy."

He helped Cherrelle out, wrapping his coat around her shivering shoulders.

"My poor baby," he cooed.

I sat in the fountain, the water soaking my clothes, chilling me to the bone.

The guards looked away, embarrassed but too afraid to disobey the man who signed their paychecks.

I sat there until sunrise.

When I finally walked back up to the penthouse, I was numb. My legs felt like blocks of ice, and my clothes were a heavy, sodden weight dragging me down.

I went to the guest room to change.

Grafton was there, waiting.

He was holding my phone.

It had been on the table, charging.

The screen was lit up.

It was the photo of Justen.

He was smiling, wearing a leather jacket, standing by his motorcycle.

Grafton and Justen looked like twins, except for the eyes.

Justen's eyes were warm. Grafton's were ice.

Grafton stared at the photo, his brow furrowed.

"Is this... is this me?" he asked, his voice strange.

He looked closer.

"No. That jacket. I never owned that jacket."

He looked at me, disgust curling his lip.

"You Photoshopped me? You edited a picture of me to make me look... happier? To fit your fantasy?"

"It's not you," I said hoarsely, my throat raw.

"Don't lie!" He threw the phone onto the bed. "You are sick, Cayla. You collect photos of me, you attack my girlfriend, you drink yourself into a stupor."

He walked to the door.

"You're planning Cherrelle's birthday Gala next week. Make it perfect. Or you're done."

He slammed the door.

I picked up the phone.

I touched Justen's face on the screen.

"He doesn't even recognize you anymore," I whispered to the ghost in the picture. "He's forgotten you."