When I stepped out through the gates of Hedo Lounge, my body was shaking uncontrollably. Fever rippled through my limbs like silent static.

My steps were unsteady, each footfall a gamble. I could barely see the road ahead, and before I could register what was happening, I stumbled headfirst into someone's chest.

A clean, sharp scent filled my nose—disinfectant. It was clinical, cold, but oddly grounding. It sobered me up in an instant.

I mumbled an apology, trying to pull away from the man's trench coat, my eyes dropping to his wrist. The watch he wore looked oddly familiar. A rare edition, limited worldwide. Even Charles couldn't get his hands on one.

"Sorry. I'm so sorry," I said again.

I knew who he was. I didn't look up. Didn't need to.

"Your hand is bleeding," he said, his voice low, textured with something like exhaustion.

"It's nothing."

I turned to leave. I didn't want to linger.

Anyone connected to Charles—I wanted no part of them.

But just as I stepped down the first stair, I was lifted off the ground, arms suddenly cinched around my waist from behind.

I gasped.

Our eyes met.

Tyler Ford's face was right there—elegant, distant, and cold as ever. Half a foot away.

His breath mingled with mine, warm and close, as if the air between us had shrunk to a single tight thread. I could almost hear the frantic beat of his heart.

"As a doctor," he said, voice even but with an edge beneath it, "I can't just watch someone sick and do nothing."

I gave a short, bitter laugh.

"Strange. You never seemed so compassionate before. I remember the last time, when Charles made me jump into the pool to fetch that necklace, you just stood at the edge and watched. Not a word. Not a flicker of concern."

His eyes cooled.

"Mindy, that time you deserved it. You were willing. You made that choice. Who could possibly save someone who doesn't want saving?"

His voice hardened, but his steps didn't falter.

Something in me flickered and went dim for a moment.

I didn't fully snap out of it until he placed me inside his car and the warm air from the vents began to thaw the chill from my bones.

"Where are you taking me?" I asked.

No answer. He started the car, silent and focused.

"You're not going back in? Won't they be looking for you?"

I couldn't stop talking. The fever blurred my brain, but my tongue kept moving, unmoored and restless.

Tyler glanced at me like he was looking at a particularly slow-witted patient.

"If you hadn't pulled your IV and run out of the hospital," he said, "I wouldn't be here tonight in the first place."

I didn't understand what he meant.

My head felt like it was about to crack open.

And then—nothing.

The last thing I remembered was sinking into something soft and warm, like falling through a cotton cloud.

When I woke up, I was in a strange bed. No one else was in the room. I was fully dressed.

On the nightstand, beneath a thermos, was a small note.

I picked it up.

The handwriting was confident and bold, sweeping across the page.

"I've got surgery today. Drink the medicine in the thermos. There's porridge in the kitchen. Heat it up yourself."

I stared at the note for a while, expressionless.

I couldn't figure out what Tyler was really trying to do.

If someone said he liked me, I wouldn't believe it for a second.

Everyone in the Kingsford circle knew he had someone else, a woman he'd loved quietly for years, someone he couldn't have.

And me?

I'd only known him for a year. We hadn't exchanged ten sentences in all that time.

Whatever his reason, it didn't matter.

I wouldn't have to care for much longer.

Just two more weeks.

Yesterday had been the final day of my agreement with the Mankin family.

I was free.

I blew gently on the bowl of porridge in front of me, just warmed.

For a moment, the rising mist blurred my vision. My eyes, dry and sore, began to sting faintly.

Then the silence shattered—my phone, vibrating and screaming like it was possessed. I glanced down and saw a familiar name flashing insistently on the screen.

Charles.

Without thinking, I answered. Muscle memory.

I even put it on speaker.

"Mindy, where the hell were you last night? I told you to pack up and get the hell out. Are you deaf? You think if you hide, you can just get away with this? I'm telling you right now—either you apologize to Rhyn, or you come clean out your crap this second."

His voice pounded through the speaker in sharp, rapid-fire bursts, like a machine gun of blame and frustration.

I didn't speak. Not until he was done.

Then I said, almost lazily, "I'm coming now."

The moment I pushed open the gate of Charles's villa, something flew straight at me.

An ashtray.

I didn't dodge fast enough. It hit me square on the forehead, sharp pain slicing through my skull. Warm blood trickled slowly down the side of my face.

I reached up, pressing my hand to the wound, and looked at him.

There was a flicker in my chest, not of rage—but something colder. He could've killed me. And part of me wondered if that would've been so bad.

He stood in the middle of the living room in grey loungewear, the kind rich men wear when they want to appear casual but in control.

When he saw the ashtray had actually hit me, his expression faltered. He even took a step forward, as if reflexively, but stopped himself.

"Are you that stupid? You couldn't duck?"

I couldn't tell if he was upset because he might've hurt me, or because the ashtray now had blood on it.

"I'm not a soldier," I said. Speaking tugged at the muscles in my forehead, sending another jolt of pain through me. My face must've looked awful—contorted and pale.

Behind him stood Rhyn—the woman from the night before.

She curled her lip at me like I was something sour she'd accidentally tasted. Her lace camisole slipped from one shoulder, skin gleaming like milk, lips glossed and parted in suggestion.

It didn't take much imagination to figure out what had happened between them before I arrived.

"Where the hell were you last night? And your phone was turned off!" Charles snapped, like a man used to shouting and being obeyed. Maybe he was angry because I no longer flinched.

But whatever fire he threw at me, it no longer scorched.

I walked over to the table, grabbed two tissues, and pressed them against the gash on my forehead.

"No battery," I replied flatly.

"I'm asking you where the hell you were!"

"Does it matter? Yesterday, you told me to get out. I'm here to pack. If you don't trust me, you can have someone watch."

I didn't want this to drag out. It wasn't worth the energy.

But he was like a lion jabbed one too many times—suddenly wild. In two steps, he was on me.

And then his hand slammed down on my head.

There was a dull, sickening thud as my already bleeding forehead struck the edge of the table.

Rhyn let out a shrill scream.

Under the harsh, white light, I turned my head slightly and looked at Charles.

His eyes were cold—steeped in shadow and something crueler. His face, sharp-edged and handsome like a sculpture, remained frozen. But when his gaze landed on me, it was the way one might look down at a filthy insect crawling near their feet.

"Let me ask you again," he said, each word clipped. "Where were you last night?"

I was weak—my whole body hollowed out by illness and injury. The blow had left me dazed, my senses drifting. I had no strength left to fight back.

But years of being crushed underfoot had left something twisted inside me—something that no longer wanted to stay quiet.

I knew exactly what would make him lose control.

"I slept with a stranger," I said slowly and clearly. "Wanted to see if it felt good. To know if someone like you—who screws like a stud horse—actually delivers any pleasure at all."

Something inside his bloodshot eyes cracked.

Then, without a word, he grabbed the cold water jug off the table, yanked out the wooden stopper, and poured the entire bottle over my wounded forehead.

Ice-cold water ran down my face in a shockwave, stinging the raw flesh like needles.

When he was done, he tossed the empty jug backward without looking. It hit poor Rhyn square in the chest.

Another scream.

She was so loud. Always screaming.

I bit down hard on my lower lip, stubbornly silent. Tears welled at the corners of my eyes but didn't fall.

"Mindy," he snarled. "You think you can leave me now? After all these years—eating my food, living in my house, wearing clothes I paid for—you're no better than the dog in the backyard. Except even the dog knows loyalty."

He grabbed at my clothes, trying to tear them, as if looking for evidence—proof of betrayal marked on my skin.

Seven years of buried emotion finally broke loose in me like a dam collapsing.

I lashed out with everything I had, wrenching myself free, screaming and grabbing anything within reach to hurl at him.

"You're insane, Charles! A true lunatic! Why wasn't it you who died?! You're nothing—nothing—compared to Grayson!"

He didn't flinch. Didn't even raise a hand to block.

Just stood there, silent and still, as objects hit and shattered around him.

His dark eyes burned into mine, something feral moving in their depths.

"So you admit it now?" he said. "You're done pretending? All these years, you've been next to me, but who were you looking at? I loved you for so long—do you even know who I am to you? Was I ever myself? Or just a mirror of him? You clung to me like a dog. All because of this face… this face that looks just like my brother's?"