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.

She woke to a suffocating silence. Anxious, needing a connection to the outside world, however toxic, she fumbled on the bedside table until her fingers found the cold glass of her phone. She held the power button, and the device vibrated to life in her hand. Not a minute later, the sun streamed through the window, warming the foot of the bed.

Dahlia woke up to the sound of her phone ringing.

She groaned. Gaynell. Again.

She reached for the phone. She had an idea. A petty, desperate idea.

She answered.

Before Gaynell could speak, Dahlia pitched her voice an octave higher. She made it breathless. Sweet.

Oh, Clive... stop it... Mother is on the phone.

She paused, as if listening to someone whisper in her ear.

Gaynell went silent.

Dahlia giggled. It was a fake, sugary sound.

No, honey, not there... I have to talk to her.

Dahlia? Gaynell's voice was suddenly cautious. Respectful. Is Clive there?

Yes, Dahlia sighed. He's being... very distracting. We're having a lazy morning.

She made a smacking sound. A kiss.

Mwah. Behave, darling.

Okay, Mother, I have to go. Clive is getting impatient. Love you, bye.

She hung up.

She threw the phone down and let out a long breath.

Victory.

She smiled to herself. That should buy her a week of silence. Gaynell wouldn't interrupt if she thought they were making an heir.

So, I'm distracting?

The voice came from the bathroom doorway.

Dahlia froze. Her blood turned to ice.

She turned her head slowly toward the sound.

Clive?

He was leaning against the doorframe. He had just showered. A towel was draped around his waist. Water droplets clung to his chest hair. He watched her with amusement dancing in his eyes.

You didn't leave? she squeaked.

Clive walked into the room. No. I slept on the couch.

Dahlia wanted the floor to open up and swallow her whole. She covered her face with her hands.

Oh my god. You heard that.

Every word, Clive said. He walked closer. He smelled of soap and amusement.

I... I just wanted her to leave me alone, she stammered.

Clive chuckled. It was a low, rumbling sound that vibrated in her chest.

It was a very convincing performance, he said. I particularly liked the 'not there' part. Where exactly was I not supposed to be touching you?

Dahlia's face burned. She felt like she was on fire.

Shut up, she groaned.

Clive sat on the edge of the bed. He was enjoying this.

You know, he said, his voice dropping lower. If you need sound effects next time, just ask. I can be very... vocal.

Dahlia hit him with a pillow.

He caught it easily. He laughed again.

It was the first time she had ever heard him really laugh. It wasn't cold. It wasn't cruel. It was warm.

She peeked out from behind her hands.

You're not mad?

Mad? Clive tossed the pillow aside. That was the highlight of my week. Watching you manipulate that witch? It was art.

He poured her a glass of water.

Here. Hydrate. All that moaning must have made you thirsty.

Dahlia groaned again, pulling the sheet over her head.

Clive watched the lump under the covers. His smile faded slightly, replaced by a softer look.

He liked this. He liked her.

The realization terrified him.