Chapter Four

“You’re sure?” He sounded stunned. “We *need* to remove the glass, but that infection—if we don’t treat it, the consequences could be serious.”

I nodded, though the motion was barely visible. “…Don’t treat it.”

“Please.”

I had to keep the brand. It was my ticket out. The starting line for tearing everything open.

He weighed my insistence in silence. Finally, he nodded.

When I heard that single word of assent, the iron clamp I’d kept on my will loosened at last. Darkness swallowed me whole.

But the pain didn’t let me go.

Without anesthesia, the cold bite of forceps, the steady flow of blood, the feeling of flesh being lifted and stitched—every detail was excruciatingly clear. I bit through my own lip, my body shaking and convulsing on the table.

…

When I woke again, the room was quiet. My body felt like it had been taken apart and reassembled, every piece throbbing with pain—especially my back.

A nurse stood nearby. Seeing my eyes open, she said softly, “Miss, you’re awake. How do you feel?”

My throat was too dry to speak.

She held a cup to my lips, letting me sip through a straw. Then she explained, “We removed all the glass, and the wounds are stitched. But…” She hesitated and glanced at my back. “Per your request, Dr. Richard didn’t treat the burns there. He just removed the surface glass and put down a sterile pad—to keep it from rubbing and getting reinfected.”

I gave a small nod.

She looked puzzled. “But burns that deep… if they don’t get cleaned and treated, they’ll get a lot worse. Later… the scars will be very bad. They could even affect your ability to move…”

“I know.” I stared up at the ceiling, my gaze unfocused, my voice barely more than a sigh.

“But I have to leave.”

The nurse froze, then only sighed and left the room.

The door hadn’t even shut all the way before a familiar voice sounded outside.

“Who’s leaving?”

Gordon stepped in.

He repeated the question, sharp eyes fixed on my face. “Who was talking about leaving?”

My heart skipped once. My expression stayed calm.

“I was asking the nurse to leave,” I said.

He studied me, suspicion in his eyes. But seeing my pale, serene face, his doubt seemed to ease a little. He didn’t push, coming closer to the bed instead.

“It was chaotic. I didn’t notice you were hurt,” he said. There was no apology in his tone, just a statement of fact.

Maybe he’d heard the nurse mention my back. “You’ve got an injury there. Cooperate with treatment and don’t be stubborn.”

At the mention of my back, my fingers curled slightly. “All right.”

“You’ll stay here for a while,” he decided, his tone brooking no argument. “I’ll come see you every day.”

No one ever moved his decisions. I didn’t argue.

In the days that followed, he did as he’d said. He showed up often—sometimes for a few minutes, sometimes only long enough to look in from the doorway. He had his men deliver expensive tonics, or stacks of magazines that meant nothing.

Every time Paula’s unique ringtone chimed, his voice softened the instant he answered. And every time, without a second’s hesitation, he turned and walked out.

That afternoon, my back hurt so badly the pain dragged me awake from a shallow sleep. I forced myself out of bed, one step at a time, to get a glass of ice water.

Every step was an ordeal. Passing the emergency stairwell, I heard a familiar voice.

“…Didn’t we agree to keep our distance in front of people?” Gordon.

My blood ran cold.

His voice held a kind of quiet amusement I’d rarely heard. “What are you doing at the hospital again? Texting me that your chest hurts?”

Paula was pinned against the cold white wall, his tall frame looming over her.

“I didn’t follow you on purpose,” she murmured, her tone syrupy and aggrieved. “I just kept thinking about that night… I was scared, I couldn’t sleep, so I came to get something to help me.”

Her complexion was rosy and healthy. She didn’t look the slightest bit unwell.

“Stubborn,” Gordon chuckled quietly. The sound dug into my ears like needles.

Then he lowered his head and kissed her.

It wasn’t the hard, punishing kiss I’d seen in the garden. It was deep, lingering, steeped in possession and desire.

Paula gave a token push or two before her arms looped around his neck.

They clung to each other, lips wet, breathing ragged.

“My little rose…” he murmured.

The words hit me like a slap.

Suddenly I remembered the villa he’d given me as “compensation” and an “engagement present”—the one with a garden full of dripping red roses. I remembered him standing in that sea of flowers and saying softly, “Roses are for the one you love.”

I’d been so moved by that rare scrap of romance, I never thought to ask—why roses?

Now, the answer was plain.

I gripped the wall and hauled myself back to my room. Every step made my back feel like it was splitting open again.

Once there, I picked up the phone from my nightstand and called the villa’s house steward.

“Steward, clear out all the roses at the villa,” I said.

There was a startled pause. “All of them? But those roses were planted by Mr. Gordon himself—”

“Yes,” I cut in, my tone leaving no room for argument. “Then contact a realtor. Put the villa up for sale.”

Silence. Then: “Yes, Miss.”

I had barely hung up when the phone lit again with a text from an unknown number. The tone was one I knew too well.

*You saw us, didn’t you?*

*I really don’t understand how you can still act like nothing’s wrong. If it were me, I’d be too ashamed to show my face.*

I could almost see Paula’s victorious smile as she typed.

My fingers paused over the keyboard, then I sent four words:

*You’ll get your wish.*