I drifted in and out of sleep, tangled in heat and fragments of memory glass shattering, rain soaking through my skin, Damian's voice breaking as he caught me.
When I opened my eyes again, the room was dark, washed in a soft bluish hue. The fever had broken, or at least dulled to a simmer. My body ached, not from illness but from everything it had held onto too long.
Damian was still beside me.
He hadn't moved.
His jacket was folded neatly over the armchair now. His eyes were closed, head resting against the headboard, one hand still near mine as if he hadn't meant to fall asleep but did anyway.
I didn't wake him.
I just watched him breathe.
He looked younger like that. Not softer, exactly but less guarded. Like the weight he always carried had slipped for a moment while no one was watching. And maybe, just maybe, he'd finally let himself care.
My throat was still raw when I whispered, "I don't hate you."
He didn't stir.
But his fingers twitched, just slightly like some part of him heard me after all.
The door creaked again.
Naomi entered, her heels silent on the rug. She stopped when she saw him slouched at the edge of the bed, breathing steady but uneven, like even in sleep, he couldn't fully rest.
She walked around the other side and checked my forehead.
"Still warm, but not dangerous," she said quietly. Then, glancing at him, "He's been here since they brought you in."
I nodded slowly.
She hesitated… then turned to go.
But just before she left, she looked over her shoulder. "He told me you weren't strong enough to walk away yet. But the truth is, neither is he."
The door clicked shut behind her.
And for the first time in a long time, I didn't feel alone in the dark.
The next morning came with silence.
No chaos. No yelling. No Damian. Only a folded note on the nightstand in sharp handwriting.
"Rest. I'll handle what I can. – D."
I ran a finger over the paper, resisting the weight in my chest.
He was trying. In his own, fractured way.
But the storm hadn't passed. I could feel it like static in the air.
By the time I showered and changed, Naomi was already downstairs, pacing with her phone to her ear. She didn't look up as I came down.
But Mark did.
He was waiting in the foyer, expression unreadable.
"There's a board meeting," he said. "Emergency session. They want you present."
"What kind of emergency?"
Mark hesitated. "No details. Just… come prepared."
My heart thudded once, hard.
I hadn't touched any investor records in months. Hadn't even logged into my Kingsley account without legal counsel. So whatever this was, it wasn't random.
Something had moved. And it had my name on it.
Mark drove in silence, fingers drumming on the wheel. The city passed in a blur. By the time we reached the Kingsley tower, my palms were sweating.
There were too many eyes in the lobby. Too many whispers. My name hit the air like smoke.
"Straight to the conference room," the receptionist said without looking at me.
The glass doors swung open.
Everyone was already seated.
And at the head of the room—Damian.
He didn't look at me.
Not even once.
I took my seat slowly.
Someone closed the doors behind me.
"Let's begin," the CFO said. She looked straight at me. "Ms. Kingsley, we've received multiple flagged transactions, and emails sent from your office account, requesting investor funds be redirected to a private shell corporation."
My chest froze. "That's not possible."
The projector clicked on. The screen filled with forwarded messages, stamped with my signature, my language, my timing.
And there is an attached bank trail. Money moved. Names blacked out.
"No," I whispered. "That's not me. I didn't send those."
Silence.
And then, finally, Damian looked up.
His eyes found mine.
Cold.
Measured.
"Tell me you didn't send those emails," he said.
I stared at him. The man who carried me through the rain. The one who stayed beside my bed for hours.
"I didn't."
The silence that followed was unbearable.
He didn't defend me.
Didn't say he believed me.
Didn't say anything at all.
He just looked at me like I was a stranger again. Like all the progress between us could be erased with a single doubt.
Then… he stood.
Turned.
Walked out.
And I sat there, hands shaking in my lap.
Mark put a hand on my shoulder, but I barely felt it.
I didn't cry.
I didn't speak.
I just whispered, too soft for anyone else to hear:
"I wish I never signed that paper."