Dawn arrived like a bruise pale purple and ugly.

Isabella hadn't slept. She'd lie on her bed fully clothed, watching the ceiling fan trace lazy circles while her mind replayed the night's horrors on an endless loop. Jonathan's face when she caught him. Priscilla's defiant eyes. The way they'd both looked at her like she was the intruder in her own life.

Now, with the first weak light filtering through her curtains, she heard movement downstairs. Muffled voices. The opening and closing of doors.

They were leaving.

Isabella sat up, her body aching as if she'd been in a fight. Maybe she had. Maybe the kind of fight that didn't leave bruises on the outside was the worst kind of all.

She walked to the window and looked down at the street. A taxi waited at the curb, its engine running. Jonathan emerged first, dragging two suitcases his and hers, Isabella noted bitterly. He'd packed for both of them. How considerate.

Priscilla followed, wrapped in a long coat despite the warm morning. Even from three floors up, Isabella could see the slump of her shoulders, the way she moved like someone carrying a weight too heavy to bear.

Good. Let her carry it.

Jonathan looked up at the building, his blonde curls catching the light. For a moment, Isabella thought their eyes might meet. She didn't move. Didn't breathe.

Then he turned away and climbed into the taxi.

The door slammed. The taxi pulled away.

Isabella watched until it disappeared around the corner.

They were gone.

She should have felt relief. Instead, she felt hollow a shell of a person with nothing inside but echoes.

An hour later, Isabella stood in the living room, surveying the damage.

The blankets were gone. The couch was bare. Someone had cleaned up the wine bottles, wiped down the coffee table, and even fluffed the pillows. Priscilla's parting gift, probably. A clean space for the mess she'd left behind.

Isabella walked through each room methodically, cataloging what was missing. Jonathan's clothes. His shoes. The stupid collection of vintage vinyl he'd been so proud of. Priscilla's makeup, her designer bags, the endless parade of beauty products that had crowded the bathroom counter.

They'd taken almost everything that belonged to them.

What remained was Isabella's life, scattered across the apartment like evidence at a crime scene. Her books. Her photos. Her mother's quilt was folded at the foot of her bed. The engagement ring she'd thrown into the night she found on the sidewalk three hours later, scratched and dirt-covered, and dropped it into an envelope she addressed to Jonathan's mother.

Return to sender.

The morning passed in a blur of motion. She couldn't stop moving. If she stopped moving, she'd have to think. If she thought, she'd have to feel. And if she felt, she might shatter into pieces too small to ever reassemble.

By noon, the apartment was spotless. One day, she packed her own bags, not many, and called a moving company to collect the furniture she couldn't carry. By two, she'd found a hotel room in a part of the city she'd never visited, paid for a week upfront, and walked out of the apartment she'd called home for four years.

She didn't look back.

The hotel was anonymous and clean, exactly what she needed. A single bed. A tiny bathroom. A window that looked out at a brick wall. No memories. No reminders. Nothing but four walls and the silence she'd been running from all day.

Isabella sat on the edge of the bed and finally let herself breathe.

Her phone buzzed.

Unknown Number: Bella, it's me. Please don't hang up. I know you blocked me but I had to try. I'm at my brother's place. I have nowhere else to go. I know you hate me and you have every right, but I need you to know that I never meant to hurt you. It just happened. It was like gravity inevitable and unstoppable. I still love you. I'll always love you. Please call me. Please.

Jonathan.

Isabella read the message three times, each word carving itself deeper into her chest. Inevitable and unstoppable. As if he'd had no choice. As if sleeping with her best friend was something that happened to him, not something he'd chosen, again and again, for months.

She blocked the new number.

Then she deleted every photo of him from her phone. Every message. Every memory. It took twenty minutes and felt like surgery without anesthesia.

When it was done, she opened her email and found the message from Margaret Chen with the details about Thorn Enterprises. The address. The contact name. The instructions to arrive Monday at nine sharp, dressed professionally, ready to impress.

Today was Thursday.

She had three days to pull herself together enough to walk into the most powerful company in New York and convince them she was worth hiring.

Three days to figure out how to be a person again.

Thursday night, she ordered takeout she couldn't eat and watched movies she couldn't follow.

Friday morning, she woke at five and ran until her legs gave out, then collapsed onto a park bench and watched the city wake up around her. Businesspeople with coffee. Nannies with strollers. Dog walkers with more animals than seemed legal. Normal people living normal lives, untouched by the kind of betrayal that changed the very structure of who you were.

Friday afternoon, she bought new professional clothes, boring, nothing that reminded her of the woman she used to be. She spent too much money and didn't care. She was starting over. Starting over required new armor.

Friday night, she almost called her mother three times and hung up before the first ring each time. What would she say? Hey Mom, your future daughter-in-law is pregnant with my fiancé's baby, and by the way, I lost my job, but I have an interview at a billion-dollar company, so that's something, right?

She didn't call.

Saturday, she researched Thorn Enterprises until her eyes burned. The company was an empire of real estate, technology, media, everything. Founded sixty years ago by Alexander Thorn, now run by his grandson, Damien Thorn. I am thirty years old. Billionaire. Notoriously private. Rumored to be ruthless, brilliant, and impossible to please.

Perfect. She was good with impossible things.

Saturday night, she practiced interview questions in the mirror until her voice went hoarse. Why should we hire you? Because I have nothing left to lose. What are your greatest weaknesses? I trust people who don't deserve it. Where do you see yourself in five years? Not here. Not anywhere. Somewhere far away from everyone I used to know.

She didn't say any of that.

Sunday, she woke up with a fever.

Of course. Of course, her body would choose now to betray her. Of course, she'd spend the day before the most important interview of her life shivering under hotel sheets, sweating through two changes of clothes, drinking water that tasted like nothing, and doing breathing exercises to keep from panicking.

By Sunday night, the fever had broken. She lay in the dark, weak but clear-headed, and made herself a promise.

She will walk into Thorn Enterprises tomorrow and get that job. She would rebuild her life from the rubble of everything that had collapsed. She would become someone new, someone too busy, too successful, too far above the kind of people who could hurt her.

And she would never, ever let anyone close enough to destroy her again.

Monday morning arrived cold and bright.

Isabella stood outside the Thorn Tower, looking up at forty stories of glass and steel that pierced the Manhattan sky like a declaration of war. The building gleamed in the early light, impossibly tall, impossibly beautiful, impossibly beyond anything she'd ever known.

Her reflection stared back at her from the lobby doors. Dark blazer. Conservative skirt. Hair in a tight bun. Freckles were visible despite the concealer she'd applied. Ocean-blue eyes with green rims that looked tired but determined.

She looked like someone who'd survived.

She hoped that was enough.

The doors slid open.

Isabella Davenport walked into Thorn Enterprises.

And nothing, not the betrayal, not the heartbreak, not the sleepless nights or the fever or the desperate, clawing need to start over, nothing could have prepared her for what waited inside.

The lobby of Thorn Tower was a cathedral of ambition.

Isabella stood frozen just inside the revolving doors, her breath catching at the sheer scale of the space. Marble floors stretched toward infinity, polished to such a high shine that they reflected the forty-story atrium like a mirror lake. A chandelier made of what looked like a thousand crystal daggers hung from the ceiling, catching light and throwing it across the walls in prismatic fragments. People moved with purpose suits and heels and the quiet hum of money doing what money does.

She felt like a fraud just standing here.

"Can I help you?"

The voice came from a reception desk that looked like it cost more than her entire education. A woman with razor-sharp cheekbones and a smile that didn't reach her eyes regarded Isabella with polite disinterest.

"Isabella Davenport. I have an interview with HR at nine."

The woman tapped at her keyboard, her manicured nails clicking against the keys. "Davenport... Davenport... ah, yes. Personal secretary position. Take the elevator to the thirty-fifth floor. Someone will meet you there."

"Thank you."

Isabella walked toward the elevators, her heels clicking against the marble in a rhythm that sounded like fake it, fake it, fake it. She kept her chin up, her shoulders back, her eyes forward. She belonged here. She deserved to be here. She would not let the ghosts of the past four days destroy this chance.

The elevator rose so smoothly she barely felt it move. Floor numbers blinked past 10, 15, 20, 25 each one taking her further from the woman who'd been betrayed and closer to someone new. Someone untouchable.

The doors opened onto a different world.

Where the lobby had been cold and monumental, the thirty-fifth floor was warm and deliberate. Rich wood paneling. Soft lighting. Art on the walls that probably cost more than most people's houses. A reception area with leather chairs arranged around a coffee table covered in magazines that Isabella had only ever seen in airports.

"Ms. Davenport?"

A woman appeared from nowhere fifties, silver hair pulled back in an elegant twist, wearing a suit that probably cost Isabella's monthly rent. Her smile was genuine, which somehow made her more intimidating.

"I'm Helena Vance, Director of HR. We spoke on the phone. Please, follow me."

Isabella followed, trying not to stare at the offices they passed. Glass walls revealed people working at desks that looked more like furniture than office equipment. Everyone was beautiful. Everyone looked like they belonged.

Helena led her into a conference room with a view that made Isabella's stomach drop. The entire city spread out below them, tiny cars and tinier people going about their tiny lives while up here, decisions were made that affected all of them.

"Please, sit." Helena gestured to a chair facing the window. "Can I get you coffee? Water?"

"No, thank you. I'm fine."

Helena sat across from her, folding her hands on the polished table. "Margaret Chen speaks very highly of you. She says you're the hardest worker she's ever employed."

"Margaret is very kind."

"She's also very honest. If she says you're good, you're good." Helena pulled a folder from her bag and opened it. "I've reviewed your resume. Five years with Chen Media, steadily increasing responsibilities, and excellent performance reviews. You were there when the company went under?"

Isabella nodded. "Until the last day."

"That's loyalty. That's also the kind of dedication we value here at Thorn Enterprises." Helena made a note. "The position you're applying for is personal secretary to our CEO. It's not an easy job. The hours are long, the demands are high, and the person you'll be working for is... particular."

"I understand."

"Do you?" Helena's eyes sharpened. "Damien Thorn is not like other CEOs. He doesn't suffer fools. He doesn't tolerate mistakes. He works at a pace that has broken stronger people than you. But if you can keep up, if you can anticipate his needs before he voices them, if you can become indispensable" She paused. "There's no ceiling on what that could mean for your career."

Isabella met her gaze steadily. "I'm not afraid of hard work. I'm not afraid of high expectations. I've spent five years being invisible while making everyone around me successful. I'm ready to do that on a larger scale."

Helena studied her for a long moment. Something shifted in her expression approval, maybe, or at least curiosity.

"Margaret said you were composed. She wasn't wrong." Helena closed the folder. "There's one more step. Mr. Thorn likes to meet potential candidates for key positions personally. It's unusual for a secretary role, but then, he's an unusual man. He's free in ten minutes. If you're willing to wait?"

Isabella's heart stuttered. The CEO. The infamous Damien Thorn. She'd be meeting him today, right now, without preparation or warning.

"I'm willing."

Helena smiled again, warmer this time. "Good. Make yourself comfortable. I'll come get you when he's ready."

She left.

Isabella sat alone in the glass conference room, looking out at the city that sprawled beneath her like a kingdom waiting to be claimed. Ten minutes. She had ten minutes to compose herself, to push down the memories of Jonathan and Priscilla, to become the woman who could walk into a billionaire's office and convince him she was worth his time.

She could do this.

She had to do this.

Twenty minutes later, Helena returned.

"He's ready. Follow me."

They walked through a set of double doors and into a hallway that felt more like a museum than an office. Original art on the walls. A sculpture that looked like Rodin but probably wasn't. The kind of quiet that came from money so old it didn't need to announce itself.

Helena stopped before a massive door, dark wood with a simple brass plate: D. Thorn, CEO.

"Go on in. He's expecting you."

Isabella's hand trembled slightly as she reached for the handle. She steadied it with sheer force of will, turned the knob, and stepped inside.

The office was enormous, with wall-to-wall windows, a desk the size of a small car, and bookshelves filled with leather-bound volumes that looked like they'd never been read. But Isabella barely noticed any of it.

Because standing at the window, his back to her, was a man she recognized.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Dark hair pulled back at the nape of his neck. A physique that spoke of money and discipline and genetics too good to be fair.

He turned.

And Isabella's world tilted on its axis.

Green eyes with silver rings around the irises. A chiseled jaw. Tanned skin that she remembered in intimate detail the way it looked in moonlight, the way it felt beneath her fingers, the way it had pressed against her own just a few weeks ago.

The stranger from the club.

The man she'd woken beside and fled from in the gray light of dawn.

Damien Thorn.

Their eyes met.

Recognition flashed across his face as quickly as lightning, there and gone. For one suspended moment, the air between them crackled with the impossible coincidence of it all.

Then his expression shuttered.

"Ms. Davenport." His voice was deep, controlled, utterly devoid of emotion. "Please, sit."

He gestured to a chair facing his desk. No acknowledgment. No flicker of the intimacy they'd shared. Nothing but the cold professionalism of a CEO meeting a job candidate.

Isabella's legs carried her forward on autopilot. She sat. She folded her hands in her lap. She raised her chin and met his gaze with every ounce of composure she possessed.

If he could pretend, so could she.

"Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Thorn."

He moved behind his desk, settling into his chair with the fluid grace of a predator. For a long moment, he simply looked at her with those green eyes assessing, calculating, searching for something she couldn't name.

"Margaret Chen speaks highly of you."

"She's been very kind."

"Kindness has nothing to do with it. Margaret doesn't recommend people she doesn't believe in." He leaned back, steepling his fingers. "Tell me why you want this job."

Isabella drew a breath. "I want to work somewhere where my efforts matter. I want to be indispensable to someone who appreciates dedication. I want"

"I don't want the rehearsed answer." His voice cut through her words like a blade. "Tell me why you really want this job."

The room fell silent.

Isabella looked at this man who had been a stranger, then a lover, now an interviewer. She thought about the past four days the betrayal, the escape, the hotel room, the fever, the desperate need to become someone new.

She decided on the truth.

"Because I have nothing left."

Something flickered in his eyes.

"My company went bankrupt. My fiancé cheated on me with my best friend. I spent the weekend in a hotel room with a fever, trying to memorize everything about this company so I wouldn't fall apart during this interview." She held his gaze. "I want this job because it's the only thing I have left to fight for. And when I fight for something, I don't lose."

The silence stretched between them.

Damien Thorn regarded her with an expression she couldn't read. The green of his eyes seemed to shift in the light, the silver rings around them catching the sun streaming through the windows.

Then, slowly, almost imperceptibly, the corner of his mouth twitched.

"Good answer."

He stood, moving to the window with his back to her.

"You start Monday. Helena will handle the paperwork." He paused, his reflection ghosting in the glass. "And Ms. Davenport?"

"Yes?"

"Whatever happened before you walked through those doors leave it there. In this building, you're no one's victim. You're my secretary. And I expect nothing less than excellence."

Isabella rose on trembling legs.

"I understand, Mr. Thorn."

She turned to leave, her hand reaching for the door handle.

"One more thing."

She looked back.

Damien Thorn faced her now, his silhouette dark against the blazing city behind him. For just a moment a fraction of a second the mask slipped.

"The club. That night." His voice dropped. "It didn't happen."

Isabella's heart clenched.

"No," she agreed quietly. "It didn't."

She walked out.

The door closed behind her with a soft click that sounded like the end of one story and the beginning of another she couldn't begin to imagine.

Monday arrived like a verdict.

Isabella stood outside Thorn Tower for the second time in seven days, but everything was different now. The building hadn't changed, still forty stories of glass and steel piercing the Manhattan sky but she had. The woman who'd walked through those doors a week ago had been desperate, broken, running on fumes and fury.

The woman who stood here now had a job.

She smoothed the front of her new navy blue blazer, professional, nothing like the clothes she used to wear, and pulled her shoulders back. Her hair was in its usual severe bun. Her makeup was minimal but flawless. She looked like someone who belonged.

She hoped.

The lobby swallowed her whole, same as before. Marble floors. Crystal chandelier. The sharp-cheeked receptionist now nodded at her with something approaching recognition. Isabella nodded back and headed for the elevators.

Thirty-fifth floor.

Helena Vance met her at the elevator with a warm smile and a stack of paperwork. "Welcome aboard, Ms. Davenport. Follow me. We'll get you settled and then introduce you to Mr. Thorn's routine."

Isabella followed, trying to memorize the path they took. Left past the conference room. Right at the sculpture. Down a hallway lined with offices that all looked the same but somehow different.

"Your desk is here."

Helena stopped before a sleek wooden desk positioned just outside the massive doors Isabella remembered from her interview. Damien Thorn's office. Her desk. She'd be sitting here every day, feet from the man she'd spent one night with and four days trying to forget.

"Mr. Thorn likes his coffee at seven forty-five precisely. Black, one sugar, stirred, not shaken. He reads the Wall Street Journal and the Financial Times before his first meeting at eight thirty. No interruptions during that time unless the building is on fire. Even then, check first."

Isabella nodded, committing every word to memory.

"He works through lunch most days. You'll be responsible for ordering if he's particular about food but won't tell you what he wants, so you'll have to learn by trial and error. Keep notes. He hates repeating himself."

"Understood."

"His meetings are scheduled in fifteen-minute increments, but he'll often run over. You'll need to manage the fallout with whoever's waiting. Diplomacy is essential." Helena handed her a tablet. "His calendar is on here. Yours too. You'll have access to everything except his personal correspondence. That comes directly to him."

Isabella scrolled through the calendar, her eyes widening at the density of it. Meetings stacked on meetings, calls scheduled between them, dinner engagements, flights, appearances. The man never stopped.

"You'll learn to read his moods," Helena continued. "If his jaw is tight, reschedule everything possible. If he's humming, he's in a good mood to take advantage of that for approval. If he hasn't slept, which is often, keep the coffee coming and don't take anything personally."

"What's he like?" The question slipped out before Isabella could stop it. "When he's not being CEO, I mean."

Helena's expression flickered something complicated passing behind her eyes. "That's the thing, Ms. Davenport. He's always being CEO. There's no off switch for men like him. Remember that, and you'll do fine."

She left before Isabella could ask more.

Seven forty-five arrived with Isabella standing outside Damien's door, a cup of coffee in each hand one black with sugar, one just in case he'd changed his mind. She'd learned early that preparation was survival.

The door opened before she could knock.

Damien Thorn stood in the doorway, dressed in a charcoal suit that probably cost more than her car. His dark hair was pulled back in its usual sleek bun, not a strand out of place. Those green eyes with their silver rings landed on her face, and for just a moment a fraction of a second something warm flickered there.

Then it was gone.

"Ms. Davenport."

"Mr. Thorn." She extended the coffee. "Black, one sugar. Stirred, not shaken."

He took it, his fingers brushing against hers. The contact lasted less than a second, but Isabella felt it everywhere.

"Come in. We have things to discuss."

She followed him into the office, tablet at the ready. He settled behind his desk, gesturing for her to take the chair across from him. The same chair she'd sat in during her interview. The same chair where she'd told him she had nothing left.

"Your first week will be intense," he said, opening a folder. "I have back-to-back meetings, a trip to Chicago on Wednesday, and a board meeting on Friday that requires extensive preparation. You'll be working late."

"I expected nothing less."

He glanced up at her, something like approval in his eyes. "Good. Helena will handle your initial training, but I want you to be shadowing me by the end of the week. The only way to learn my rhythm is to experience it."

"Understood."

For the next hour, they went through his calendar in detail. Meeting by meeting, name by name, context for every person on every call. Damien spoke with precision, never repeating himself, expecting her to absorb everything on the first pass. Isabella took notes furiously, asking questions only when necessary.

By nine o'clock, her head was spinning.

"That's enough for now." Damien leaned back, studying her. "You're keeping up better than most."

"High praise from you, I'm sure."

The corner of his mouth twitched that almost-smile she'd seen during her interview. "Don't let it go to your head. The real test starts now."

He spent the rest of the day proving it.

The week passed in a blur of coffee and calendars and constant motion.

Isabella learned Damien's rhythms the way she'd once learned Jonathan's moods by watching, by anticipating, by being so attuned to another person that she could feel the shifts before they happened. But where Jonathan had been predictable, even boring in his patterns, Damien was a creature of infinite complexity.

He worked like a man possessed, fueled by coffee and something darker that Isabella couldn't name. He was ruthless in meetings, cutting through bullshit with surgical precision, but she caught glimpses of something else: a flash of dry humor here, a moment of unexpected patience there. He was never cruel, never petty, but he was always, always in control.

And he never, not once, mentioned the night they'd shared.

Isabella told herself she was grateful for that. She told herself she'd moved on, that the past was the past, that she was here to work, not to obsess over green eyes and silver rings and the memory of strong arms around her in the dark.

She told herself this every night in her hotel room.

She almost believed it.

Thursday evening, Isabella worked late organizing files for Friday's board meeting. The office was quiet, most employees went home to families and dinners, and normal lives. She didn't mind. Normal was overrated.

Her phone buzzed.

Unknown Number: I know you blocked me. I know you hate me. But you need to know I'm sick. Really sick. The doctors don't know what's wrong. I'm scared, Bella. I know I don't deserve you, but you're the only person I want. Please. Just one conversation. That's all I'm asking.

Jonathan.

Isabella stared at the message, her heart doing something complicated in her chest. Sick. He was sick. After everything after the betrayal and the lies and the baby with her best friend, he was reaching out like any of it mattered.

She should delete it. Block the number. Move on.

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard.

"Everything alright?"

She looked up. Damien stood in his office doorway, suit jacket gone, shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows. He looked different like this softer somehow, more human. His green eyes moved from her face to the phone in her hand.

"Fine," she said automatically. "Just the wrong number."

He studied her for a long moment. "You're a terrible liar, Ms. Davenport."

"Maybe you just haven't known me long enough to be fooled."

Something shifted in his expression. "Maybe I know you better than you think."

The air between them thickened. Isabella's heart hammered against her ribs. This was dangerous territory the kind of moment that could undo all the careful distance they'd maintained.

"Mr. Thorn"

"Damien." He moved closer, stopping on the other side of her desk. "When we're alone, call me Damien."

"That's not appropriate."

"Since when do we care about appropriateness?" His voice dropped. "You spent a night in my arms, Isabella. You woke up tangled in my sheets. You fled before dawn like I was something to be afraid of. And now you sit outside my office every day, pretending we're strangers."

Isabella rose, needing to meet his eyes at the same level. "You're the one who said it didn't happen."

"It didn't. That doesn't mean I forgot."

"Why?" The word came out raw. "Why does it matter? You have women throwing themselves at you constantly. I'm just"

"Just what?" He moved closer still, close enough that she could smell his cologne the same scent she remembered from that night. "Just the most interesting person I've met in years? Just the only woman who looked at me like I was a person instead of a payday? Just someone I can't stop thinking about, no matter how hard I try?"

Isabella's breath caught.

"Damien"

"Tell me you don't feel it." His voice was barely a whisper now. "Tell me you haven't thought about that night. Tell me you don't wonder what would have happened if you'd stayed until morning."

She should lie. She should step back, put distance between them, and protect herself from the inevitable destruction that comes with caring about someone.

But she was so tired of lying.

"I think about it every day."

The admission hung between them like a confession.

Damien reached for her, his hand cupping her face with a gentleness that made her want to cry. His thumb traced the line of her cheekbone, brushing against the freckles she'd always hated.

"Then stop pretending."

He kissed her.

It was soft at first tentative, questioning. But the moment their lips met, something broke loose between them. Years of loneliness, weeks of denial, months of wanting it all poured into that kiss until Isabella forgot where she ended and he began.

When they finally broke apart, both breathing hard, Damien rested his forehead against hers.

"I don't know what this is," he whispered. "I don't know where it's going. But I know I can't keep pretending you're just my secretary."

Isabella closed her eyes.

"Neither can I."

Her phone buzzed again.

Jonathan's message still waited on the screen. She'd forgotten about it completely.

Now, in the aftermath of Damien's kiss, it felt like a warning from another life. Sick. Scared. The only person he wanted.

She should reply. She should find out what was wrong. She should;

Damien's phone rang, shattering the moment.

He glanced at the screen, his expression hardening. "I have to take this."

Isabella nodded, stepping back. The distance between them felt like miles.

He answered the call, his voice shifting into CEO mode. Whatever intimacy had existed between them moments ago was gone, replaced by the cold efficiency she'd come to know.

Isabella gathered her things, her mind spinning. Jonathan. Damien. The impossible tangle of her life.

She was almost to the elevator when Damien's voice stopped her.

"Isabella."

She turned.

His green eyes held hers across the length of the hallway. "Tomorrow. At the same time. We talk about what this means."

She nodded, not trusting her voice.

The elevator doors closed, and Isabella Davenport rode down forty floors with a heart full of hope and a phone full of ghosts.

She didn't see the figure watching from the street below.

Didn't notice the familiar blonde curls, the desperate eyes, the way he'd been waiting for hours just to catch a glimpse of her.

Didn't know that Jonathan had been telling the truth.

He was sick.

And he wasn't going away.