Arminda POV

The fluorescent hum of the emergency room didn’t just buzz; it drilled straight into the throbbing center of my concussion. I sat on the edge of the paper-covered exam table, my dress still damp and clinging to my skin, reeking of chlorine and humiliation.

The doctor—a man firmly on the Barron payroll—snipped the last thread on the back of my scalp.

“Six stitches,” he muttered, stripping off his latex gloves with a snap. “You have a mild concussion. No sleeping for the next four hours. And stay away from pools.”

He offered no sympathy. In our world, sympathy was a hemorrhage—a weakness to be cauterized.

I slid off the table, the room tilting on its axis. I walked out to the waiting area, clutching the envelope Esther had thrown at me like a severance package. I expected the room to be empty. I expected to be alone.

I wasn’t entirely wrong.

Through the glass doors of the private waiting room, I saw them.

Coleton sat in a plush leather chair, his head buried in his hands. For a fleeting second, a foolish, treacherous part of my heart whispered that he was worried about me. That he cared.

Then I saw Charly.

She was perched on his lap, sobbing into the crook of his neck. There wasn’t a scratch on her.

“It was so scary, Cole,” she whimpered, her voice pitched perfectly to carry through the cracked door. “She looked at me with such hatred. I think she tried to pull me in.”

Coleton stroked her hair, his jaw set in a hard line. “She knows her place now, Charly. Shh.”

“I just feel so unsafe with her in the penthouse,” she added, her voice dropping to a manipulative whisper that slithered through the glass.

I turned away. My stomach churned, not from the concussion, but from the sheer toxicity radiating from that room. It was suffocating.

I pushed through the back exit, stepping into the cold rain. It washed over my face, mingling with the phantom scent of pool water. I pulled my phone out and dialed a number I had saved three years ago. A clinic in Zurich.

“This is Arminda Morse,” I said, my voice steady despite the pounding in my skull. “Is the position still open?”

“Ms. Morse,” the voice answered, surprised. “We didn’t think you’d ever leave New York. Yes. When can you start?”

“Immediately.”

I hung up and hailed a cab. I had to pack. I had to erase myself before they erased me completely.

The penthouse was silent when I arrived. It was a fortress of glass and steel, a gilded cage I had called home for three years. I went straight to my small room off the kitchen. I didn’t take much. Just my clothes, my medical license, and the stethoscope Coleton had given me for Christmas that first year.

I picked up the framed photo on my nightstand. It was candid—Coleton in his wheelchair, me laughing as I pushed him through the garden. He was looking at me in the photo. He looked... human.

I slid the photo out of the frame and ripped it in half. Then I ripped it again.

“Arminda!”

His voice boomed from the main living area. It wasn’t a question. It was a summons.

I froze. I shoved my suitcase under the bed and walked out.

Coleton was on the sprawling leather sofa, clutching his stomach. His face was ashen, sweat beading on his forehead. Charly was in the kitchen, humming a light tune as she stirred a pot.

“My stomach,” Coleton groaned, looking up at me. The arrogance from the pool was gone, replaced by raw, unfiltered pain. “Fix it.”

I walked over, my clinical detachment engaging automatically. I scanned him. Distended abdomen. Pallor. Diaphoresis.

“What did you eat?” I asked.

“Charly made carbonara,” he gritted out.

I looked at Charly. She was pouring heavy cream into the pot, oblivious or uncaring.

“Rich cream, bacon, cheese,” she said proudly. “Comfort food.”

“He has half a stomach because of the surgeries, Charly,” I said, my voice freezing over. “He cannot process heavy dairy or grease. It causes dumping syndrome. It’s agony for him.”

Charly rolled her eyes, setting the spoon down with a clatter. “Oh, please. He’s a grown man, not an invalid. Stop babying him.”

Coleton doubled over, a guttural groan tearing from his throat.

“Coleton,” I said, focusing on him. “Don’t eat anymore. You need enzymes and an antiemetic. I’ll get them.”

“It tastes good,” Coleton gasped, glaring at me as if his pain was my doing. “Charly cooked for me. I’m eating it.”

“It is poison to your system,” I stated flatly.

“Just get the damn pills, Arminda!” he shouted. “Stop lecturing me and do your job.”

I stared at him. He wasn’t just choosing her food; he was choosing her reality. She treated him like a healthy man, and he was willing to suffer physical torture just to validate that fantasy.

“Fine,” I whispered.

I went to the med cabinet, grabbed the enzymes and the painkillers. I walked back and set them on the table. Charly brought a fresh bowl of pasta, placing it in front of him with a sweet, triumphant smile.

“She’s just jealous, baby,” Charly whispered, loud enough for me to hear. “She wants you to be sick so you need her.”

Coleton looked at the pills, then at the pasta. His hand trembled as he picked up the fork.

“Get out of my sight, Arminda,” he muttered, shoving a forkful of heavy cream sauce into his mouth.

I walked back to my room, listening to the sound of him swallowing the food that would hurt him, realizing with a final clarity: he had been poisoned long before tonight.

Arminda POV

The penthouse was shrouded in darkness when I woke up, the silence not peaceful, but heavy and suffocating.

I checked my watch. 2:00 AM.

My head throbbed, a rhythmic reminder of the concrete coping where I had pressed my forehead earlier in despair. I crept out of my room, my sole intention to leave my keys on the counter and walk out the door forever.

I found him on the bathroom floor.

Coleton was curled in a fetal position on the cold marble, shivering violently. The "comfort food" had done exactly what I said it would. He was pale, sweating through his shirt, groaning in his sleep.

Charly was nowhere to be seen. She had probably gone to the guest suite to sleep, unwilling to deal with the mess she had created.

I should have stepped over him. I should have left him there.

But my hands moved before my brain could stop them. I knelt beside him.

"Coleton," I whispered.

He flinched, his eyes cracking open. They were hazy with pain. "Arminda?" he rasped. "It hurts."

"I know," I said softly.

I got a wet cloth and wiped his face. I helped him sit up, guiding him to lean against the tub. I adjusted the brace on his ankle, my fingers brushing the scars I knew better than my own name.

The metal clasp of the brace snagged my skin, slicing a thin line across my palm. I didn't flinch, and in his delirium, he didn't notice.

He leaned his head on my shoulder, his heavy breaths warming my neck. For a moment, he was the broken prince again, and I was his only sanctuary.

"Make it stop," he mumbled, his hand gripping my arm like a lifeline.

"Breathe," I instructed, massaging the pressure points on his hand. "It will pass."

He fell asleep like that, his head on my shoulder, his weight crushing me against the hard porcelain. I stayed until dawn, until his breathing evened out. Then I extricated myself, leaving him a glass of water and fresh enzymes.

By noon, the vulnerability was gone.

"Get dressed," Coleton barked, standing in the living room.

He looked haggard but composed, the armor back in place. "Charly has a gallery opening downtown. You're coming."

"I'm not on the clock," I said, standing by my door. "And I have a concussion."

"You're on the clock until I say you aren't," he snapped, adjusting his cuffs. "Charly needs an assistant for the event. Someone to handle the logistics. You're organized. You're going."

"I am a trauma nurse, Coleton. Not a personal assistant."

"You are whatever I pay you to be," he said, his voice dropping to that dangerous, vibrating octave. "Get in the car."

The gallery was a sleek, modern space in SoHo, filled with people who smelled of old money and new crimes. Charly was the center of attention, displaying "art" that looked like paint splattered by a toddler.

She treated me like a servant, snapping her fingers for water, for champagne, for me to hold her purse.

Coleton stood by the door, watching the exits. He was paranoid. He had enemies.

I was standing near a sculpture made of twisted metal when the alarm screamed.

It wasn't a fire drill. The sound was followed instantly by a concussive *boom* from the back of the gallery. The front windows shattered inward. Smoke, thick and black, rolled across the ceiling instantly. A rival family. A message.

"Down!" Jaydan screamed somewhere in the smoke.

The crowd surged like a terrified beast. I was shoved hard into the metal sculpture. My bad ankle, the one I had sprained months ago carrying Coleton’s equipment, twisted violently. A sharp crack echoed up my leg. I crumbled to the floor, gasping.

"Coleton!" I screamed, the smoke stinging my eyes.

I saw him. He was ten feet away. He looked wildly through the gray haze. His eyes locked on mine.

For a second, I saw recognition. I saw him start to move toward me.

Then Charly shrieked. "Cole! Help me!"

She was standing near the exit, perfectly fine, just scared.

Coleton stopped. He looked at me, on the floor, unable to stand. Then he looked at Charly.

He turned his back on me.

He grabbed Charly’s hand and shoved her through the door, disappearing into the safety of the street.

I was left alone in the smoke. The sprinklers kicked on, drenching me in cold, oily water. I dragged myself across the floor, glass cutting into my knees, my ankle screaming with every inch. I crawled over the shards of Charly's terrible art, coughing until I tasted blood.

I woke up in a hospital room that wasn't the Barron private suite. It was a general trauma ward. Jaydan was sitting in the chair, looking at the floor.

"Hairline fracture," he said without looking up. "And smoke inhalation."

"Where is he?" I asked, my voice a rasp.

"He's securing the perimeter," Jaydan lied. We both knew he was lying. "He... he didn't know you were still inside, Arminda. The smoke was thick."

"He looked me in the eye, Jaydan," I whispered.

The door banged open. Coleton strode in. He smelled of smoke and expensive cologne. He didn't look at the cast on my leg. He didn't ask how I was.

He marched to the bed, his face a mask of fury.

"Where the hell do you think you're going?" he demanded.

I stared at him. "What?"

"The maid found your room stripped," he growled, leaning over the bed, invading my space. "Suitcases packed. Pictures destroyed. You were leaving. Before the fire, you were leaving."

"Yes," I said.

"You don't get to leave," he hissed. "Not until I say we're done."

"You left me in a burning building, Coleton," I said, my voice dead. "We're done."

Arminda POV

"I panicked," Coleton breathed, the admission ragged.

It was the first time I had ever heard him use that word. He stood at the foot of my hospital bed, his hands gripping the metal railing so tightly his knuckles turned the color of bone.

"The explosion... it triggered the memory of the car bomb. I just grabbed the nearest person and ran. It wasn't a choice, Arminda. It was a reflex."

"The nearest person," I repeated, my voice flat as I gestured to the heavy plaster cast encasing my leg. "I was on the floor, Coleton. Looking right at you. Charly was by the door."

"I didn't see you."

He looked me dead in the eyes and said it.

The lie hung in the sterile air between us, heavy and suffocating.

"I thought you were behind me," he added, doubling down.

I looked away, staring at the blank, white wall. It was easier than looking at the ghost of the man I thought I knew.

"It doesn't matter, Coleton. It clarifies things."

"It clarifies nothing!" he snapped, the guilt twisting into anger. "You're not going to Europe. Esther told me about the money. You think you can just buy your way out of this family?"

"Esther fired me," I said. "She paid me to leave."

"I am the Don!" His voice rose, cracking with a strange, frantic desperation. "Esther doesn't make personnel decisions. I do. And you are not dismissed."

Before I could answer, his phone buzzed against the bedside table. He snatched it up, and his face softened instantly—a transformation that cut deeper than the shrapnel.

"Charly? Yeah, I'm here. What? You can't breathe?"

He looked at me, then back at the device. "I'm coming. Stay on the line."

He hung up, already turning away. "She's having a panic attack about the fire. She needs me."

"I have a broken bone," I said quietly.

"You're a nurse," he threw over his shoulder, his hand on the doorknob. "You know how to heal. She doesn't."

He walked out.

And with him went the last shred of the girl who had loved him.

*

Three days of silence later, he sent a car for me.

Not to take me to the airport, but to the estate.

"Mandatory attendance," Isaias said as he helped me maneuver into the backseat of the limousine. His tone was professional, but he avoided my gaze. "Charity Auction for the Children's Hospital. It washes the money. Boss says you have to be there to show the family is united after the gallery attack."

I sat in the back, my cast propped up awkwardly on the leather.

The front passenger door opened, and Charly slid in. She wore a dress that likely cost more than my entire medical school tuition. She adjusted the rearview mirror, not to check traffic, but to admire her own lipstick, effectively blocking my view of the road.

"Cole implies we're a trio," Charly laughed, casting a glance at Coleton as he took the wheel. "But we all know who sits in the front."

Coleton didn't defend me.

He just drove.

The auction was a blur of fake smiles, clinking crystal, and the blinding flash of diamond jewelry. I sat at the Barron table in a wheelchair, feeling invisible in my black dress, like a shadow amidst their glitter.

Coleton was manic, bidding on everything, displaying his wealth with a feverish intensity to prove the Barrons weren't weakened by the bombing.

He bought Charly a diamond necklace for two hundred thousand dollars. He draped it around her neck while the room applauded. "To the most beautiful survivor," he toasted.

Then, the auctioneer unveiled the next item.

It was a painting. *Lavender Fields at Dusk*.

My breath hitched in my throat.

It was an oil painting of a field in Provence, rendered in deep purples and soft golds. During the long, agonizing nights when Coleton couldn't sleep from his chronic pain, I used to read to him about Provence. I told him it was my dream to open a small clinic there, surrounded by lavender. I told him the scent was the only thing that truly calmed my soul.

Coleton looked at the painting. He looked at me.

For a heartbeat, time suspended. I thought he remembered.

"Fifty thousand," Coleton called out.

"Sold!"

My heart fluttered, a traitorous bird in my chest. A peace offering? An apology?

The attendants brought the painting to our table. Coleton took it. He turned toward me, holding the frame.

"Arminda," he started.

I reached out a hand, my throat tight, tears pricking the corners of my eyes.

"Charly loves purple," he said, turning slightly and handing the painting to the woman beside him. "It matches your eyes, babe. A bonus for the necklace."

Charly squealed, clapping her hands. "Oh, Cole! It's boring, but the frame is antique. I love it."

My hand was still reached out.

I slowly curled my fingers into a fist and lowered it to my lap.

The humiliation was a physical blow, heavier than the water in the pool, hotter than the fire in the gallery. It was a precise, surgical strike to the heart.

A waiter glided by with champagne. Coleton grabbed a glass and held it out to me.

"Drink up, Arminda," he said, his eyes challenging me, daring me to make a scene. "Celebrate with us."

I looked at the bubbling glass. I looked at the painting in Charly's ungrateful hands.

"No," I said.

"Excuse me?" Coleton's smile dropped, his brow furrowing.

"I said no." I reached down and unlocked the brakes on my wheelchair with a sharp *click*.

"I don't drink with strangers."

I wheeled myself away from the table, leaving him standing there with the glass in his hand, looking confused for the first time all night.