By the fourth day, the darkness had become a dull, constant companion. The sharp pain behind her eyes had faded to a low throb.

Dr. Lin said she should walk. Keep the circulation going.

The nurse was busy with a code blue down the hall. Dahlia could hear the alarms. She didn't want to wait.

She picked up the white cane they had given her. It felt light, flimsy. A toy.

She put on the large, black sunglasses over her bandages. She looked like a celebrity in rehab, or a very confused insect.

She stepped into the hallway.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The sound of the cane on the tile was rhythmic. It was her sonar.

She counted her steps. Twenty paces to the nurses' station. Turn left. Thirty paces to the solarium.

The air in the hallway was cooler. It smelled of coffee and floor wax.

At the other end of the corridor, worlds away, Clive Harrington stepped off the elevator.

He was not in London. The deal had closed early. He was here to see Professor Gold, his mentor from Wharton, who had suffered a mild stroke.

Clive checked his phone. His assistant, Arthur, was listing the afternoon schedule.

Meeting with the board at 2. Dinner with the Senator at 7.

Cancel the dinner, Clive said. His voice was low, a baritone that usually made people stop talking and start listening. I hate that man.

Arthur scurried beside him, typing furiously on a tablet.

Clive turned the corner. He walked with purpose. He always walked like he owned the ground beneath his feet. Usually, he did.

Dahlia heard footsteps. Fast. Heavy. Confident.

She tried to move to the right, to hug the wall. But her internal compass was off. She drifted left.

The footsteps got closer.

She swung the cane out, checking for obstacles.

Crack.

The tip of the cane struck something solid. Leather. Bone.

The footsteps stopped abruptly.

Dahlia froze. The cane vibrated in her hand.

I am so sorry! she gasped. She pulled the cane back against her chest. I... I didn't judge the distance.

There was a pause. A silence that felt heavy.

Clive looked down.

His Italian leather shoe had a scuff mark. He frowned. He looked up at the offender.

A woman. Small. Dressed in a shapeless hospital gown and a gray cardigan that looked three sizes too big. Her face was swallowed by massive sunglasses and layers of white gauze.

She looked like a stiff wind would blow her over.

Watch where you're going, he said.

His voice was automatic. Cold. Dismissive. He didn't even really look at her. He stepped around her, his shoulder brushing the air near hers.

Arthur, trailing a step behind, slowed for a fraction of a second, his gaze lingering on the woman's frame. The height, the delicate chin... it was familiar, but he dismissed it as coincidence and hurried to catch up to his boss.

Dahlia stopped breathing.

The voice.

It wrapped around her spine like a cold wire.

Clive?

No. It couldn't be.

The man walked past her. The scent of him trailed behind. Cedarwood. Crisp rain. And something metallic, like money.

Dahlia stood frozen in the middle of the hallway. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird.

It sounded exactly like him.

But Clive Harrington wouldn't be on the fourth floor of a major medical center without an entourage. He would be in the penthouse suite of Mount Sinai, or in London.

She shook her head. Paranoia. The stress was getting to her.

She turned around, tapping the cane rapidly, retreating to the safety of her room.

Clive reached the elevator. He pressed the button.

Something nagged at him.

That voice.

It was soft, terrified. But the timbre...

He frowned. He replayed the moment in his head. The way she held the cane. The messy hair.

Arthur, he said.

Yes, Mr. Harrington?

Go back to the nurse's station. Find out who is in room... He calculated the distance back from where they collided. Room 404.

Arthur looked confused. Why, sir?

Just do it.

Clive didn't know why. He wasn't a man of intuition. He was a man of data. But the data in his head-the voice, the height, the chin that poked out from under the bandages-was forming a pattern he didn't like.

Arthur ran back.

Clive held the elevator door open with his foot. He waited.

Two minutes later, Arthur returned. His face was pale. He looked like he had seen a ghost, or worse, a lawsuit.

Well? Clive demanded.

Sir, Arthur swallowed hard. The patient in 404. It's... it's Mrs. Harrington.

Clive's hand tightened on the elevator door. The metal groaned.

Dahlia?

Yes, sir. She checked in under her maiden name.

Clive felt a sensation he rarely experienced. It started in his gut and burned its way up to his throat. It wasn't just anger. It was something sharper.

She was here. Blind. Alone. And she hadn't told him.

He stepped out of the elevator.

Cancel the board meeting, he growled.

Dahlia was on her hands and knees.

She had dropped the cane again. It had rolled away, clattering across the linoleum floor of her room. She swept her hands across the cold tiles, feeling for it.

Dust. Lint. No cane.

She crawled forward. Just a few more inches.

Her hand struck something.

It wasn't the cane. It was a shoe. A man's shoe.

She froze. Her fingers rested on the leather toe cap. She could feel the quality of the material. Smooth. expensive.

Her hand traveled up. A crisp pant leg. Suit fabric.

Dahlia?

The voice came from above. It wasn't a hallucination this time. It was real. And it was furious.

Dahlia scrambled back. She lost her balance and landed hard on her bottom. Her glasses went askew.

Clive? Her voice was a squeak. What... what are you doing here?

Clive stared down at her.

She looked like a wreck. The hospital gown was bunching up. Her hair was a bird's nest. She was crawling on the floor like a beggar.

This was his wife.

A Harrington.

Rage flared in his chest. Not at her, exactly. But at the image. At the Douglas family. At the universe that allowed this indignity.

He didn't answer. He bent down.

What are you- Dahlia started to protest.

He didn't let her finish. He slid one arm under her knees and the other behind her back.

He lifted her.

She was shockingly light. She felt fragile, like hollow bones and paper skin.

Clive! Put me down!

She flailed, her hand smacking against his chest. It was like hitting a wall.

Stop moving, he ordered. You're blind, not deaf.

He held her tight against him. Her face was pressed into the lapel of his suit. She smelled it again. The cedar. The rain. It was overwhelming.

He carried her out of the room.

Where are we going? She was panicking. People were looking. She could feel their eyes, hear the sudden hush in the corridor.

To a room that isn't a closet, Clive snapped.

He shot a glare over his shoulder at Arthur, a silent command to handle the room and its contents, and carried her down the hall, past the gaping nurses, past Arthur who was frantically making calls.

Clive, please, Dahlia whispered. This is embarrassing.

You crawling on the floor was embarrassing, he countered. This is damage control.

He marched to the elevator, ignoring the waiting crowd. Arthur cleared the car.

They went up. Top floor. The VIP suites.

He carried her into a room that smelled of fresh lilies and money. He deposited her on the bed. It was softer than the one downstairs.

He stood over her, breathing slightly harder than usual.

Why didn't you tell me?

Dahlia straightened her gown. She felt exposed. Vulnerable.

The contract, she said. Clause 34B. No emotional obligations. I didn't want to bother you.

Clive felt like punching the wall.

You didn't want to bother me? He laughed, a harsh, humorless sound. So you decided to have major surgery alone? What if there were complications? Who was going to sign for you? Arthur?

I did put Arthur down, she mumbled.

Clive dragged a hand down his face. You put my lawyer as your emergency contact instead of your husband.

You were in London!

I have a jet, Dahlia!

The shout hung in the room.

Dahlia shrank back against the pillows. She had never heard him raise his voice. He was always so cold, so controlled.

Clive saw her flinch. He forced himself to exhale. He adjusted his cufflinks. A nervous tic.

He walked to the window. He needed distance. If he stayed close to her, he might do something irrational. Like shake her. Or hug her.

This room is ridiculous, she said into the silence. It probably costs two thousand a night.

Five, Clive corrected. And stop thinking like a pauper. You are a Harrington. If the press found out you were in a standard recovery room, without private security, the stock would drop two points.

Is that all you care about? The stock?

Clive turned to look at her. She couldn't see him, but he stared at her bandaged face. He looked at her hands, twisting the bedsheet.

No, he said softly. But he didn't say what else he cared about.

He pressed the intercom button on the wall.

Get the Chief of Medicine in here. Now.

The room was quiet. The kind of quiet that money buys. Thick carpets absorbed every sound.

Clive sat in the leather armchair by the window. He had Dahlia's medical chart in his hands.

Arthur had left to deal with the billing department.

Clive flipped the page. Cornea transplant. Rejection risk: Moderate. Recovery time: Six weeks.

He stared at the signature line on the consent form.

Dahlia Glenn.

The handwriting was shaky. She must have been terrified.

He looked up at her. She was lying still, her hands folded over her stomach. She looked like an effigy on a tomb.

Are you thirsty? he asked.

Dahlia jumped slightly. She hadn't known he was still there.

Yes.

Clive stood up. He poured water from a crystal pitcher. No plastic cups here.

He walked to the bed. Here.

He held the glass out.

Dahlia reached for it. Her hand swiped through the air, missing the glass by three inches.

Clive felt a pinch in his chest.

Stop, he said.

He sat on the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped under his weight.

Open your mouth.

I can do it, she insisted.

Open.

She parted her lips. Clive brought the glass to her mouth. He tipped it slowly.

Cool water touched her lips. She drank greedily. A drop escaped the corner of her mouth and trickled down her chin.

Without thinking, Clive reached out. He brushed the droplet away with his thumb.

His skin was rough against hers. Warm.

Dahlia froze. She stopped drinking.

Clive's thumb lingered on her jawline. He could feel her pulse fluttering there. Like a trapped butterfly.

For a second, neither of them moved. The air in the room grew thick. Charged.

Then the door opened.

Oh, excuse me!

A nurse bustled in, carrying a tray of medications. She stopped dead when she saw Clive Harrington sitting on the bed, his hand on his wife's face.

Clive pulled his hand back slowly. He didn't look guilty. He looked annoyed.

Time for the dressing change? he asked.

Yes, sir.

Clive stood up and moved out of the way. But he didn't leave the room. He leaned against the wall, arms crossed.

He watched as the nurse peeled back the tape. Layer by layer.

When the last gauze came away, Clive inhaled sharply.

Dahlia's eyes were swollen shut. The skin around them was bruised purple and yellow. She looked like she had been in a prize fight.

She flinched as the light hit her eyelids.

It hurts, she whispered.

Clive's hands clenched into fists. He wanted to destroy something. He wanted to find whoever had made her feel like she had to do this alone and ruin them.

The nurse applied ointment. Dahlia whimpered.

Clive stepped forward. He reached out and took Dahlia's hand.

She grabbed onto him. Her fingers dug into his palm. She squeezed hard.

He squeezed back.

He stood there for ten minutes, holding her hand while the nurse worked. He didn't say a word. He was a silent anchor in her world of pain.

When the fresh bandages were on, the nurse left.

Dahlia didn't let go of his hand.

Clive, she whispered.

Yeah.

Why are you doing this?

Clive looked at their joined hands. Her pale, slender fingers against his large, tanned ones.

Because, he said, his voice rough. You're my asset. I have to protect my investment.

Dahlia let out a small, sad laugh. Right. The asset.

She loosened her grip.

Clive didn't let go immediately. He held on for a second longer than necessary. Then he pulled away.

He walked to the window. He took out his phone.

Dr. Aris. I want a full report on the donor tissue quality. And get me a list of the best post-op specialists in the country. Money is irrelevant.

He looked back at the bed. Dahlia had turned on her side, facing away from him.

He felt a strange hollowness in his chest. He ignored it. He dialed the next number.