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.

Clive had left for a meeting. He promised to be back, but Dahlia didn't hold her breath.

She was alone in the silence of the VIP suite.

Her phone chimed. A voicemail.

She fumbled for it. She pressed play. Her finger slipped and hit the speakerphone icon.

Dahlia!

Gaynell's voice filled the room. It bounced off the high ceilings.

You ungrateful little brat! I called your building's superintendent and he said you haven't been home in three days. Where are you? Are you with a lover?

Dahlia curled into a ball. Make it stop.

If you ruin this marriage, Dahlia, I swear to God, I will call in the markers I hold on Gertie's nursing facility. You think Harrington's checks clear without my sign-off on the Douglas family trust disbursements? I can bury her in paperwork and debt so fast her head will spin. You think Harrington will protect you? He doesn't care about you. You are a broodmare to him. Nothing more.

The door clicked open.

Dahlia didn't hear it over her mother's screaming voice.

So you better be pregnant, or you better be dead. Those are the only two excuses I will accept.

The message ended.

Silence rushed back into the room.

But it wasn't empty silence. It was heavy. Breathing.

Dahlia wiped her tears quickly. She reached for the phone to turn it off.

A hand intercepted hers.

Large. Warm. Calloused.

Clive took the phone from her hand.

Clive? Dahlia gasped.

He didn't answer. He ended the call. He turned the phone off. He tossed it onto the sofa across the room.

The thud was loud.

How much of that did you hear? she whispered. Her voice was trembling.

Enough, Clive said. His voice was terrifyingly calm. It was the eye of a hurricane.

He walked to the bed. He sat down. The mattress dipped.

Is that true? he asked. About your foster mother?

Dahlia nodded. She couldn't speak. The shame was choking her.

And the threats?

Always, she whispered.

Clive stared at her. He looked at the bandages covering her eyes. He thought about the prenup. The money she asked for. He had thought she was greedy. He had thought she was just another Douglas, looking for a payout.

He had been wrong.

She wasn't greedy. She was a hostage.

He felt a cold rage settle in his bones. It was a familiar feeling, one he used in boardrooms to destroy competitors. But this time, it was personal.

Why didn't you tell me? he asked again.

Because you're a Harrington, she said. You and the Douglases... it's all the same world. I'm just the currency.

Clive felt like he had been slapped.

Is that what you think I am? Just a checkbook?

Aren't you?

Clive looked at the takeout bag in his hand. He had brought her congee from her favorite place in Chinatown. He had remembered she mentioned it once, six months ago.

He opened the container. The smell of ginger and chicken filled the room.

Eat, he said.

He dipped the spoon in. He blew on it.

Dahlia hesitated.

Open, he commanded.

She opened her mouth. He fed her.

It was intimate. It was domestic. It was completely at odds with the conversation they just had.

The spoon clicked against her teeth.

Sorry, he mumbled.

It's okay.

He fed her the whole bowl. Every spoonful was an apology he didn't know how to say out loud.

When she was finished, he wiped her mouth with a napkin.

Dahlia, he said.

Yes?

No one threatens my wife. Not even her mother.

Dahlia felt a shiver run down her spine. It wasn't fear. It was something else. Hope?

Clive stood up.

I have to make a call.

He walked out to the balcony. He dialed Arthur.

Arthur. I want a forensic audit on the Douglas family trust. I want to know every debt, every lien, every skeleton in their closet.

But sir, that's your father-in-law.

Not for long, Clive said. If they want a war, I'll give them a massacre.