At seven in the morning, Marta walked into the living room with a dust cloth.

She stopped dead in her tracks.

The heavy glass door leading to the balcony was wide open. The freezing autumn wind was blowing the curtains wildly into the room.

Marta rushed toward the balcony.

She gasped, dropping the cloth.

Collette was curled into a tight, unnatural ball on the lounge chair. She was wearing nothing but a thin men's dress shirt.

"Miss!" Marta cried out.

She reached out and touched Collette's cheek. She yanked her hand back.

Collette's skin was burning like a furnace. Her lips were cracked and completely white.

"Oh, God," Marta panicked. She pulled her phone from her apron pocket and dialed 911 with shaking fingers.

Ten minutes later, the sirens wailed through the streets of Manhattan.

Inside the back of the ambulance, the paramedics ripped open ice packs and shoved them under Collette's arms and behind her neck.

Collette thrashed weakly on the stretcher.

She muttered something incoherent, her brow deeply furrowed in pain. A single tear leaked from the corner of her eye and rolled into her hairline.

The ambulance slammed to a halt at the emergency entrance of NewYork-Presbyterian Hospital.

Dr. Marion Alcott took one look at her vitals and ordered her straight into a room.

"Acute pneumonia and a severe fever," the doctor announced.

Because there was no family member to sign the VIP forms, Marta had immediately contacted K. M. Sterling. The executive assistant used the Lara Empire's corporate channels to handle the exorbitant admission fees. However, since Hartwell was entirely unreachable and hadn't given explicit orders, Sterling could only secure a standard ward room for the time being.

Hours later, the harsh, white fluorescent lights pierced through Collette's eyelids.

She slowly opened her eyes. Her head felt like it was being split open with an axe. Her throat was so raw it felt like she was swallowing broken glass.

She stared at the IV tube taped to the back of her hand.

Marta sat in the plastic chair next to the bed, wiping her eyes with a tissue.

"I called Mr. Sterling," Marta sniffled. "He will tell Mr. Lara."

Hearing Hartwell's name made Collette's stomach physically twist.

She pushed her elbows into the mattress and forced herself to sit up.

A sudden, sharp pressure hit her bladder.

Without thinking, she grabbed the plastic tubing on her hand and ripped the IV needle straight out of her vein.

"Miss! No!" Marta jumped up.

Collette ignored her. Blood immediately beaded on her skin. She snatched a wad of sterile cotton from the bedside tray and pressed it hard against the puncture wound, hiding the bright red drops. She swung her legs over the bed and stood up. The room spun wildly, but she grabbed the wall to steady herself.

She walked out of the room. The harsh smell of bleach and rubbing alcohol assaulted her nose.

Keeping her bleeding hand firmly clenched and hidden against her side, she walked slowly toward the public restroom down the hall.

As she passed the nurses' station, two nurses were leaning over a clipboard.

"Did you see the girl in the top-floor VIP suite?" one whispered. "Miss Isabell. She's so delicate. The guy with her is gorgeous."

Collette's feet stopped moving.

The name "Isabell" hit her chest like a sledgehammer. Her lungs forgot how to work.

She didn't go to the restroom.

Her legs moved on their own. She dragged her burning body toward the elevators and pressed the button for the VIP floor.

The doors opened to thick, plush carpeting. There was no smell of bleach here. It was completely silent.

Collette hid behind the corner of the wall, her eyes locked on the heavy wooden door at the end of the hall. It was cracked open.

She crept closer.

Through the narrow gap, she saw Isabell sitting up in a hospital bed. She wore a silk hospital gown. Her face was pale, but her hair was perfectly brushed.

Sitting in the chair next to the bed was Hartwell.

His suit jacket was draped over the back of the chair.

He was holding a small paring knife. His head was bowed, his eyes focused entirely on peeling an apple for Isabell. His movements were slow and incredibly patient.

"The bed is too hard, Hartwell," Isabell whined softly.

"I'll have them change the mattress tomorrow," Hartwell replied.

His voice was low. It was the exact same gentle tone he used on the phone last night.

"Did you leave work just to sit with me?" Isabell asked, reaching out to tug on his shirt sleeve.

Hartwell didn't pull away. He just kept peeling the apple.

Collette stood in the hallway. The blood in her veins turned to ice.

Her body shook violently from the fever. She bit down on her bottom lip so hard that the skin broke. The metallic taste of blood flooded her mouth.

She didn't make a sound.

"Miss? Are you lost?" a passing nurse asked, looking at Collette's bare feet and standard hospital gown.

Collette flinched like she had been burned.

She covered her mouth with her bleeding hand, spun around, and ran toward the elevator, fleeing the floor like a pathetic, wounded animal.

Collette stumbled back into her standard ward room.

Her legs gave out the second she reached the bed. She collapsed onto the thin mattress.

She grabbed the scratchy white blanket and pulled it entirely over her head.

Her body shook uncontrollably. The fever burned her skin, but inside, she felt completely hollowed out.

Heavy, rhythmic footsteps echoed in the hallway.

The sound of expensive leather shoes hitting the linoleum floor grew louder, stopping right outside her door.

The door was pushed open.

"Mr. Lara," Marta's voice trembled with respect.

Hartwell walked in. The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.

Collette kept her eyes squeezed shut. Under the blanket, her hands curled into tight fists. Her fingernails dug deep into her palms.

Hartwell stopped next to the bed.

He looked down at the blanket, then his eyes caught the drops of blood smeared on the white sheets from where she had ripped out the IV.

The space between his eyebrows pulled into a hard, deep crease.

"Get a nurse in here to fix this line. Now," Hartwell barked. His voice was thick with raw anger and heavy irritation.

The nurse rushed in, her hands shaking as she re-inserted the needle into Collette's bruised vein. As soon as she finished, she practically ran out of the room.

Hartwell reached down and violently ripped the blanket off Collette's head.

Collette was forced to open her eyes.

She stared up into his pitch-black eyes. Her own eyes were completely dead, filled with nothing but defensive spikes and cold mockery.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Hartwell demanded, towering over her. "Running out to the balcony in the middle of the night? Is this some pathetic attempt at a pity play?"

The words hit the exact center of Collette's trauma.

She let out a harsh, breathless laugh. Her chest heaved.

"A pity play?" Collette sneered. Her voice was weak, but the venom in it was lethal. "I wouldn't dare. After all, I'm not nearly as delicate as Miss Nielsen."

Hartwell's pupils contracted to pinpoints.

The air in the room turned dangerous.

He leaned down, his large hand snapping out to grip her jaw. His fingers pressed hard into her skin, forcing her to tilt her head back and look at him.

"Do not test my limits, Collette," Hartwell warned through gritted teeth. "You and she are not comparable."

Collette's heart physically ached, but she forced her chin up higher against his grip.

"You're absolutely right," she smiled, a hollow, ugly thing. "I'm just a whore you bought. She's your actual heart."

Hartwell's jaw ticked. The muscle jumped under his skin.

His fingers tightened on her jaw.

Collette sucked in a sharp breath of pain, but she didn't blink. She just stared at him, daring him to break her.

They stayed locked like that for ten agonizing seconds.

Hartwell stared at her flushed, feverish cheeks and her cracked, bleeding lip.

Slowly, he let go.

He let out a harsh breath, turned his back to her, and walked to the water dispenser in the corner of the room.

He filled a paper cup with warm water. He pressed the back of his hand against the paper to test the temperature, ensuring it was appropriately warm.

He walked back to the bed.

He slid his arm under her neck, easily lifting her upper body off the pillows. He pressed the cup to her lips.

Collette turned her face away. She kept her lips clamped shut.

"Drink it," Hartwell growled. "Or I will force it down your throat with my mouth."

Collette's eyes widened slightly. She knew he wasn't bluffing.

Humiliated, she opened her mouth and let him pour the water down her dry throat.

When he pulled the cup away, Collette tried to shift her weight. Her left arm, stiff from the IV, moved awkwardly. She let out a quiet hiss of pain.

Hartwell set the cup down.

He didn't say a word. He just reached out and grabbed her cold, stiff arm.

He placed her arm across his thigh. His large, warm hand wrapped around her wrist.

With perfect, calculated pressure, his thumb began to massage the tight muscles of her forearm, working his way up to ease the soreness from the IV fluid.

He kept his head down. His face was completely focused, his touch incredibly gentle, as if he were holding something made of fragile glass.

Collette stared at the straight line of his nose and his thick eyelashes.

The heavy block of ice in her chest cracked, just a fraction.

The hospital room was dead silent.

The only sound was the slow, steady drip of the IV fluid falling into the chamber.

Hartwell's rough thumb dragged over the sensitive skin of Collette's inner arm.

The heat from his palm sent a wave of physiological shivers straight up her spine. It was a terrifying contrast to the brutal words he had just spoken.

Collette tried to yank her arm back.

Hartwell's grip tightened instantly, pinning her arm to his thigh. He didn't look up, just continued kneading the sore muscles.

The heavy, suffocating tension in the room was suddenly broken by two sharp knocks on the door.

K. M. Sterling pushed the door open and stepped inside. His face was strictly professional.

"Mr. Lara," Sterling said quietly. "The board is waiting. The acquisition meeting starts in twenty minutes."

Hartwell's hand stopped moving.

A deep crease formed between his eyebrows. He looked highly displeased.

Collette immediately seized the opportunity. She ripped her arm out of his loosened grip and rolled over, turning her back to him.

"Mr. Lara is a very busy man," Collette said to the wall. Her voice was flat and hollow. "Don't waste your time pitying me here."

Hartwell stared at his empty palm. His eyes darkened.

He stood up slowly. He reached up and buttoned his suit jacket, instantly transforming back into the untouchable CEO of the Lara Empire.

He leaned over the bed.

He grabbed the edge of the blanket Collette had kicked away and forcefully tucked it around her shoulders, trapping her body in the warmth.

"Stay in this bed and rest," Hartwell ordered coldly. "I will deal with you after my meeting."

He turned around and walked out. Sterling followed closely behind.

The door clicked shut.

The overwhelming pressure in the room vanished, leaving behind a sickening, empty silence.

Collette slowly rolled onto her back. She stared at the blank white ceiling.

A massive, gaping hole tore open in her chest. The cold wind blew right through it.

She let out a dry, self-deprecating laugh.

In the face of his money, his power, and his precious Isabell, she was always the one who could be dropped at a moment's notice.

She lifted her right hand. Her thumb found the edge of her index fingernail.

She started picking at the cuticle. She picked and picked until the skin broke and a bright bead of blood welled up.

The sharp sting of pain grounded her. It kept her brain from falling apart.

Thirty minutes later, the door opened again.

Marta walked in, carrying a large, insulated thermal bag.

"Miss," Marta said, her eyes full of pity as she looked at Collette's pale face. She set the bag on the rolling tray table.

She unzipped it and pulled out a heavy porcelain bowl.

Instantly, the rich, savory smell of premium seafood filled the sterile hospital room.

"Mr. Lara ordered this before he left," Marta explained. "It's from Le Bernardin. He said you must eat."

Collette stared at the steaming soup.

Her stomach violently rejected the idea. It felt like a slap in the face. A piece of expensive meat thrown to a stray dog to keep it quiet.

She turned her head away. "Take it away. I'm not hungry."

Marta sighed heavily. "Miss, please. It is your body. How can you get better if you do not eat?"

The words struck Collette like lightning.

How can you get better?

She needed to get better. She had a war to fight. She had a family to destroy. She couldn't die in this pathetic bed.

Collette took a deep breath. She shoved the grief down into the pit of her stomach and sat up.

She took the heavy silver spoon from Marta's hand.

Like a machine completing a task, she scooped the expensive soup and forced it into her mouth.

The warm liquid hit her stomach, bringing a rush of physical energy.

She swallowed every last drop, her eyes staring straight ahead, completely cold and terrifyingly clear.