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.

At two in the afternoon, Collette had just managed to fall into a light sleep.

The door to her room swung open. A team of nurses walked in.

The head nurse smiled politely. "Ms. Norris, we are moving you to the VIP suite on the top floor."

Collette frowned. Her chest tightened with immediate rejection. "I didn't ask to be moved."

"It's a direct order from Mr. Lara," the nurse replied, already unlocking the wheels of the bed.

Before Collette could argue, two orderlies pushed her bed out of the room and into the private medical elevator.

The doors opened on the top floor.

They wheeled her into a suite that looked like a five-star hotel. Massive floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the autumn leaves of Central Park.

The nurses transferred her to the luxury bed and quietly left the room.

Collette sat in the center of the massive bed. The silk sheets felt like a golden cage pressing against her skin.

She couldn't breathe.

She ripped the empty IV tube from her hand, threw off the covers, and stood up. She needed air.

Wearing only the thin silk robe provided by the hospital, she walked barefoot out of the suite.

The thick carpet absorbed all sound. She was about to head toward the elevators when a familiar, delicate laugh echoed from down the corridor, followed by the low, commanding timbre of a man's voice. Collette's heart skipped a beat. She walked toward the lounge area at the end of the hall, hiding behind a massive potted palm tree.

A soft, rolling sound caught her attention.

Collette peeked through the green leaves. The blood drained from her face.

Hartwell was back.

He was walking slowly down the hall, his hands resting on the handles of a wheelchair.

Sitting in the wheelchair was Isabell.

She had a white bandage wrapped around her head. She was holding a paper cup of hot cocoa, giggling at something she was saying.

Hartwell, the man who never bowed his head to anyone, was leaning down slightly to listen to her. There was a faint, tolerant look on his face.

Collette's stomach lurched. A violent wave of physical disgust washed over her.

Just then, Isabell shifted in the chair. Her eyes flicked toward the potted plant. She saw the edge of Collette's silk robe.

A nasty, calculating gleam flashed in Isabell's eyes.

"Ah!" Isabell cried out.

She jerked her hand, intentionally tipping the cup. The hot cocoa spilled all over the blanket covering her legs.

She threw herself backward, crying out in pain, her head resting directly against Hartwell's stomach.

Hartwell immediately stopped the wheelchair.

He pulled a silk handkerchief from his breast pocket and bent over, quickly wiping the liquid off the blanket.

While his head was down, Isabell looked up. She stared straight through the leaves at Collette and gave her a smug, victorious smirk.

Collette let out a cold, sharp laugh.

She didn't hide anymore. She stepped out from behind the plant and walked right into the middle of the hallway.

The sound of her laugh made Hartwell freeze.

He stood up straight and turned his head.

When he saw Collette standing there in a thin robe, barefoot on the floor, his eyes darkened with immediate anger.

He took long strides toward her, shrugging off his suit jacket as he walked.

He reached out, fully intending to wrap the warm jacket around her shivering shoulders.

The second the fabric touched her skin, Collette violently jerked backward.

She looked at his hands like they were covered in a deadly virus. Her eyes were filled with absolute, unfiltered disgust.

Hartwell's hands froze in mid-air. The jacket slipped halfway down his arm.

He stared at her, completely shocked by the pure repulsion in her eyes.

Collette glanced at Isabell in the wheelchair, then looked straight into Hartwell's eyes.

"Mr. Lara," Collette said, her voice dripping with ice. "Don't touch me with the same hands you use to take care of other women. I find it dirty."

The word echoed in the silent hallway.

The air around them shattered.

Collette didn't wait for his reaction. She turned around, keeping her spine perfectly straight, and walked back to her VIP suite.

She left Hartwell standing frozen in the hallway, his face turning a terrifying shade of pale.