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.

“I’m really sorry, Lillian,” Scarlett said with bright sweetness, though the apology felt rehearsed rather than sincere. “I was starving and couldn’t wait anymore.” She slipped her arm through Lillian’s as if nothing were amiss, guiding her toward the dining table with effortless familiarity.

Lillian moved slowly, each step sending a pulse of pain through her injured ankle.

When they reached the table, she stopped.

Most of the dishes were already cleared out—only scraps remained, plates half-cold and abandoned. Whatever Alexander had claimed to prepare “especially” for tonight was long gone.

She took in the sight without speaking.

A heaviness settled in her chest, dull but persistent. Disappointment. A sting of humiliation. Something quieter beneath it—something she refused to name.

“It’s alright,” she said at last, her tone steady. “I’m not very hungry anyway. You two can finish. I’ll rest.”

Before either of them could study her expression, she turned and headed toward the staircase, gripping the railing to steady herself.

Behind her, Scarlett’s voice rang out with exaggerated concern.

“Lillian? Are you upset because I started without you?”

Alexander’s low laugh followed.

“You overthink everything,” he said casually. “She twisted her ankle earlier. She’s uncomfortable, that’s all.”

There was an ease in his voice—a softness.

She didn’t need to look to know he had reached out to ruffle Scarlett’s hair the way he often did.

But she did glance back.

Just for a second.

His hand rested lightly in Scarlett’s hair, the gesture instinctive, unguarded.

Lillian’s lips parted as if to speak.

In the end, she said nothing.

Only a soft breath left her as she continued upstairs and closed the bedroom door behind her.

The quiet inside felt suffocating.

Her mind replayed the day relentlessly. One phone call from Scarlett had been enough for Alexander to leave without hesitation. Meanwhile, she had endured the clinic alone, waited alone, returned alone.

The contrast was impossible to ignore.

She forced the thought aside and focused instead on the immediate issue—her ankle.

Opening drawers and cabinets in the master bathroom, she searched for medical supplies.

Nothing.

After a few minutes, she remembered a secondary first-aid kit that had once been stored in the guest room.

Moving carefully, she made her way down the hall and crouched with difficulty near the closet.

There it was.

A thin layer of dust covered it.

Inside, she found little more than an old bottle of antiseptic—well past its expiration date.

She hesitated only briefly before taking it.

As she stood, she noticed something else.

The guest room looked freshly arranged. The bed neatly made. Clean sheets tucked with care.

She didn’t linger on that observation.

Back in the master bedroom, she lowered herself carefully onto the edge of the bed and rolled up her pant leg.

The swelling had worsened. The skin looked tight and inflamed.

She soaked a cotton pad with the antiseptic and pressed it gently to the bruised area.

Pain shot upward instantly.

A sharp gasp escaped her.

“You shouldn’t be using that.”

The voice from the doorway made her freeze.

She looked up.

Alexander stood there, holding a fresh bottle of medicinal liniment.

“That antiseptic expired months ago,” he said, stepping inside. “Didn’t you check? You’re still careless sometimes.”

His tone wasn’t harsh—just faintly critical.

He moved closer and crouched in front of her, reaching toward her ankle.

Instinctively, she pulled her leg back.

His hand paused midair.

“You don’t want me to touch you?” he asked, his voice level.

The bedside lamp cast shadows across his face, making his expression difficult to read.

She brushed a strand of hair behind her ear to avoid meeting his eyes.

“That’s not it,” she said quietly. “Scarlett’s downstairs. You should stay with her. Just leave the liniment here. I can handle it.”

He studied her for a moment longer.

Then, without warning, he grasped her ankle firmly and guided it into his lap.

The sudden movement made her flinch.

“Alexander—” she began, but the sharp sting cut off the rest of her words.

When he saw the full extent of the swelling, his expression shifted.

The faint impatience vanished.

“…I’m sorry,” he said softly.

The words stunned her.

In three years, she could not remember hearing him say that so simply.

Not when he had once left her in severe abdominal pain to attend a high-profile medical conference.

Not when she later discovered Scarlett had been present at that event—publicly introduced as someone under his personal mentorship.

But now, over a sprained ankle, he apologized.

The irony nearly made her laugh.

“Since when do you apologize?” she asked lightly, keeping her tone neutral.

He avoided her gaze, focusing on spreading the liniment carefully over her swollen skin.

“I should have checked earlier,” he admitted. “It’s worse than I realized.”

There was sincerity in his voice.

For a fleeting moment, something fragile inside her stirred—the faint echo of warmth she once relied on.

But it faded quickly.

“It’s just a sprain,” she replied with a faint smile. “It doesn’t require an apology.”

Even as she said it, she knew the apology wasn’t truly about the injury.

And that understanding hurt far more than the swelling ever could.