Alexander had already put several meters between them when his pace faltered.

For the briefest second, Lillian thought he might turn around and come back to her.

He didn’t.

Instead, he angled his body halfway toward her, his expression detached, as if reconsidering something trivial. “You trained in emergency response, Lillian,” he said evenly. “It’s just a sprain. You can handle it yourself, can’t you?”

Just a sprain?

Moments earlier, he had declared it serious enough to carry her across the courtyard.

Perhaps severity depended on who was injured.

A faint, humorless smile tugged at her lips but never fully formed. In Alexander’s world, some people were priceless investments. Others were operational assets—replaceable.

A memory rose unbidden, tightening her throat.

Years ago, during a quiet summer evening at the De Luca estate, she had nicked her finger while slicing fruit in the kitchen. The cut hadn’t even bled properly—just a thin red line near her nail.

Alexander had reacted as if she’d been shot.

He had lifted her straight onto the sofa, chastised her for being careless, and insisted on disinfecting and bandaging the tiny wound himself. For the rest of the evening, he hovered at her side, refusing to let her so much as lift a glass of water.

Back then, she mistook that intensity for devotion.

She thought that kind of attention lasted.

Now, standing there with her ankle swelling and him debating whether she was worth a delay, she felt something inside her split cleanly in two.

Her eyes burned. She angled her face away before he could notice.

As she shifted slightly, her gaze landed on the edge of his coat.

One button was missing.

The sight pulled her into another memory.

A week earlier, the Finance Division had hosted a reception in a neighboring territory. She’d drunk more wine than she should have—rare for her. By the time the evening ended, the chauffeurs were gone, and the roads were nearly empty.

After waiting outside in the cold longer than she cared to admit, she finally called him.

“Alexander,” she had said, her words softened by alcohol and fatigue, “there’s no driver left. Could you pick me up?”

On the other end, she heard movement—footsteps, faint music.

And Scarlett’s laughter in the background.

“I’m out with Scarlett,” he replied briskly. “It’s late. I’m not sending her home alone. Wait a while. I’ll drop her off first. If you can’t, just find another car and expense it.”

He hadn’t paused to register that she had already told him there was no other car.

Scarlett’s safety had been non-negotiable.

Lillian’s had been flexible.

In the end, she walked.

Nearly twenty kilometers through dim back roads, heels blistering, dress catching on low branches, pride dissolving with every step.

When headlights finally appeared behind her, a sleek black Audi A8 slowed to a stop.

Alexander stepped out, irritation radiating from him.

“What are you doing?” he demanded sharply. “I drove past the location you sent three times. You weren’t there.”

“I waited, but there was no—” she began.

He didn’t let her finish. His fingers closed around her wrist, not gently, and he ushered her into the car with controlled force. The door slammed hard enough that something metallic clattered to the floor.

Later, when she found a small black button near the passenger seat, she realized it had torn off his coat during that outburst.

That night had been the last time she told herself comforting lies.

After that, she understood her position clearly.

Dragging herself back to the present, she lifted her chin and looked at him with measured calm.

“I work crisis response too,” she said quietly. “I’ll take care of it. You should go. No need to keep… your priority… waiting.”

Whatever hesitation lingered in his posture vanished at her composed tone.

He stepped closer and brushed a brief kiss against her forehead—efficient, almost perfunctory. “Rest,” he said. “I’ll check on you later.”

The gesture felt rehearsed.

Routine.

She nodded just as mechanically.

Without another glance in her direction, he turned and headed toward the main house, already focused elsewhere.

Only when he disappeared from sight did she straighten fully. Her fingers rose instinctively to wipe the moisture at the corners of her eyes before anyone passing through the courtyard could see.

She tried to calculate how many times he had walked away mid-sentence because Scarlett called.

She lost count.

And that soft, breathy tone Scarlett used earlier? Lillian had spent years managing crisis rooms and field injuries. She knew the sound of genuine illness.

There had been no weakness in Scarlett’s voice.

Yet Alexander responded every time as if summoned by instinct.

Carefully redistributing her weight, Lillian began limping toward the medical wing. Without adrenaline masking it, the pain in her ankle flared sharply.

A few soldiers leaning against the exterior wall noticed her approach and smirked knowingly.

“Careful, future Donna,” one called out playfully. “Save that energy for the wedding night.”

Another laughed. “Yeah, if the Don can’t make tomorrow’s inspection because he’s exhausted, we’ll know who to blame.”

Their teasing carried no malice—just assumption.

She offered a restrained smile, lifting her hands lightly. “Nothing scandalous,” she replied, raising her pant leg just enough to reveal the swelling. “I wasn’t paying attention. That’s all.”

They nodded, still grinning, clearly unconvinced.

Lowering the fabric again, she pushed open the door to her private office inside the infirmary.

It clicked shut behind her with a soft, final sound.

In the silence, she exhaled slowly—deep and steady.

Soon, she told herself.

Very soon, none of this would belong to her anymore.

By the time Lillian finally lowered herself into the leather chair inside her private office and rolled up the fabric around her ankle, the damage was undeniable.

The skin had darkened into a deep, mottled violet. The swelling had spread far beyond the initial twist. Walking across the courtyard earlier—out of pride rather than necessity—had clearly made it worse.

Dr. Brooks, who had been reviewing medical files at the adjacent desk, glanced over and sucked in a sharp breath.

“That’s not a mild strain,” he muttered. Then, without hesitation, he motioned to a nurse passing by. “Go inform Don Alexander. If the future Donna is limping around like this and we ignored it, we’ll be the ones paying for it later.”

Lillian’s head snapped up immediately. “No—please, don’t call him—”

But the nurse was already halfway down the corridor before she could finish.

Her shoulders dropped.

After a moment of hesitation, she reached into her coat pocket and pulled out her phone. She typed quickly.

Someone saw my ankle and sent word to you. I tried to stop them. Please don’t turn it into an issue.

She stared at the screen, waiting for the familiar vibration.

Nothing.

Minutes stretched.

When the nurse returned, her earlier brisk confidence had disappeared. She kept her eyes politely lowered.

“Don Alexander said he knows,” she began cautiously. “But Lady Scarlett is in his office. They’re discussing something important. He didn’t say he would come.”

The air in the room seemed to thin.

Lillian lowered her gaze to the desk, focusing on the polished wood as if it demanded her full concentration.

“He must be busy,” she replied quietly. The words scraped against her throat.

Her phone buzzed in her palm.

A voice message.

She opened it immediately.

Alexander’s voice filtered through the speaker—measured, composed, distant.

“I saw it.”

That was all.

No concern. No follow-up question. No instruction to stay seated or apply ice.

Just acknowledgment.

It felt louder than silence.

Before the weight of it could settle completely, the receptionist’s voice echoed from the front desk.

“Ms. Moretti? A client specifically requested you.”

The interruption felt like rescue.

“I’m on my way,” she called back, pushing herself up too quickly. Pain flared viciously through her ankle, forcing a quiet hiss between her teeth.

She needed movement.

Needed distraction.

The last time she had felt this suffocating urge to escape had been during her engagement banquet.

That night had been meant to publicly confirm her position at Alexander’s side. The city’s most influential figures had gathered. Cameras. Champagne. Expectations.

He arrived two hours late.

“An urgent matter came up,” he had explained coolly, as if she hadn’t spent the entire evening fielding curious glances and subtle questions alone.

For her, it had been a milestone.

For him, it had been optional.

Later, whispers reached her through discreet channels. He had been seen leaving the city that afternoon—with Scarlett.

She hadn’t asked for confirmation.

She didn’t need it.

Now, adjusting her white coat with steady hands, she forced herself down the hallway despite the pulsing pain.

The rest of the afternoon dissolved into routine. Patients came and went. She stitched minor cuts, adjusted prescriptions, offered reassurances. Her voice remained calm, professional.

She didn’t allow her thoughts to wander.

When dusk finally settled beyond the tall windows, painting the skyline in fading gold, she returned to her office and eased into her chair.

As she stood again to leave, sharp agony shot up her leg, nearly buckling her knees.

She looked down.

The swelling had worsened considerably—tight, inflamed, neglected.

She hadn’t treated it at all.

A weary exhale escaped her.

Earlier, Alexander had said he would pick her up.

So she waited.

The building gradually quieted. Day staff left. Night shift replaced them. Conversations faded to murmurs.

Still nothing.

No call.

No message.

No footsteps approaching her door.

The silence pressed heavier with each passing minute.

Finally, she braced herself against the desk and forced herself upright.

Fine.

She would go to his office instead.

She managed only a few uneven steps before her ankle throbbed so violently that cold sweat prickled along her spine.

She leaned against the wall, breathing shallowly.

This was foolish.

With trembling fingers, she retrieved her phone and called him.

He answered on the second ring.

“Yes?” His voice was even. Neutral. Almost relaxed.

For a fleeting second, she wondered if he had genuinely forgotten.

If his promise had been that insignificant.

She swallowed, pride burning painfully in her chest.

“You said earlier you’d come get me after you finished,” she said softly. “I’m still at the clinic.”

There was nothing but silence on the other end of the call.

For several drawn-out seconds, Lillian heard only the faint sound of Alexander’s breathing through the receiver.

When he finally responded, there was hesitation in his voice—subtle, but unmistakable. “Lillian… I apologize. Something urgent came up at the estate, so I left earlier than planned. Stay there. I’ll return to pick you up.”

As he spoke, background noise filtered through—cutlery clinking softly against porcelain, a chair shifting across the floor.

Then came Scarlett’s voice, light and cheerful, unmistakably close to him.

“Alexander! Dinner’s almost ready. Where are you going?”

Lillian shut her eyes for a brief moment, pressing her fingertips against her temple as if to steady herself. A thin smile curved her lips, brittle and faint.

“It’s alright,” she said evenly. “Don’t trouble yourself. I’ll arrange my own ride.”

This time, he didn’t hesitate.

“…Fine,” he agreed. “Take your time. I prepared something special tonight. It’ll still be warm when you get home.”

The line disconnected.

Lillian remained standing in the dim hallway, the silence afterward heavier than the words exchanged. Her chest felt strangely hollow, yet the ache within it deepened rather than dulled.

Her hand slipped into her coat pocket, brushing against the folded transfer contract she had hidden there.

How exactly was she going to convince him to approve her departure?

She leaned her shoulder briefly against the cool stone wall before forcing herself forward. Every step sent a sharp, punishing throb through her injured ankle. By the time she reached the main road beyond the clinic’s gates, sweat clung to her skin despite the evening chill.

After what felt like an eternity, she managed to flag down a passing taxi.

The moment she lowered herself into the back seat, exhaustion washed over her. Her fingers felt cold and clammy, her reflection in the window pale.

The driver studied her through the rearview mirror. “Miss, you don’t look well. Shouldn’t you call your boyfriend to come get you?”

Lillian let her head rest lightly against the glass, releasing a soft breath. A quiet, humorless laugh slipped from her lips.

“I don’t have a boyfriend,” she said. “Only a fiancé.”

“Then call him,” the driver urged kindly. “You look like you might pass out. No fiancé would want his woman struggling like that.”

She stared out at the passing streetlights, their glow streaking across the window.

“That would be ideal,” she replied calmly. “Unfortunately, he’s busy… entertaining someone else.”

The driver’s brows drew together. “That doesn’t sound very reliable.”

A faint chuckle escaped her.

“Reliable?” she echoed softly. “I’d call it selective attention.”

Every detail of their upcoming wedding—the guest list of allied families, the layout of the reception hall, the redesign of their shared suite—had been arranged solely by her.

When she once asked for his opinion, Alexander had responded flatly, “You’re better at this. Why consult me over minor details? Handle it.”

Yet once everything was finalized, he criticized nearly every choice.

It was Scarlett who later “adjusted” the décor—until Alexander finally approved.

The memory left her feeling drained beyond measure.

The taxi eventually pulled up to the gates of the De Luca estate.

From the entrance to the main doors was only a short walk—mere minutes under normal circumstances.

Tonight, it took her nearly thirty.

Each step burned.

When she finally reached the front door, she instinctively reached into her bag for her keys.

Her fingers met nothing.

She stilled.

Then she knocked.

Several seconds passed before the door opened.

Alexander stood there, irritation already etched into his features.

“Where are your keys?” he asked sharply. “Why are you knocking instead of letting yourself in?”

She stepped past him without answering at first, moving carefully to avoid putting too much weight on her ankle.

Only once she reached the living room did she set down her bag and retrieve her keyring.

“My spare key?” she said calmly. “You took it last week and gave it to Scarlett. Don’t you recall?”

His expression shifted as memory surfaced. The sharp edge of annoyance dulled, replaced by faint awkwardness.

“I’ve had a lot on my plate,” he replied. “You could’ve made another copy. You manage these things.”

Lillian offered a small smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

She had stopped expecting equal consideration a long time ago.

When it came to Scarlett, everything required urgency.

When it came to her, everything could wait.

Steadying herself lightly against the wall, she made her way toward the dining area.

Scarlett was already seated at the table.

The moment she spotted Lillian, she rose with exaggerated delight.

“Lillian, you’re finally back!” Scarlett exclaimed brightly, hurrying forward and slipping her arm through Lillian’s as though they were intimate friends. Her smile was wide and sweet, almost childlike, as she leaned in with theatrical warmth.