"The hospital staff made a few assumptions of their own," he says.
"Does it bother you?"
"I don't care what they think, Brielle. I care what you think."
"I hate it," I whisper.
"What I do to you?"
"No. That people like Miles think I shouldn't enjoy it," I mutter. "That they think they should have a say. I'm not broken just because I like…whatever this is between us. I resent being treated like I am."
"I assume you told him as much?"
"More or less." I should leave it there, but I don't. "He said that I'm just another thing for you to break. That men like you aren't capable of love. That all you know how to do is own and control."
Asher looks away, swallowing. "Do you think he's right?"
"I don't know," I say. "Do you?"
He doesn't answer, and I'm not sure if it's because he's afraid of the answer, because he genuinely doesn't know, or if it's because he doesn't want to hurt me with the answer.
"I want to sleep," I mumble, tired of thinking. Tired of hurting. Just…tired.
He tucks a pillow behind my head, smoothing my hair off my forehead. For a second, I think he might kiss me, but he just sits there, watching me fade. The look in his eyes scares me.
I try to tell him not to do anything stupid, but my tongue is too heavy. The words won't form. All I manage to do is mumble incoherently.
"Everything will be fine," he says, his hand steady on mine, his expression shattered by something that might almost be love.
I'm not sure I believe him, but I drift anyway, the painkillers tugging me under.
The next time I wake up, my head throbs, my mouth is dry, and the sheets are twisted around me like I fought a war in my sleep. I think I have. Maybe I'm still fighting it.
It takes a full minute to realize I'm alone. The digital clock on the nightstand says 5:47 AM, but the bed is cold, Asher's side perfectly made.
I call for him, my voice a raspy wreck, but there's no response. Maybe he decided to go to work? I don't know.
I stagger to the bathroom, splash water on my face, and try to pretend the girl in the mirror is still in one piece. She's not. My cheek is scraped, my lower lip split, and ugly purple and green bruises are damn near everywhere I look. Unlike the ones Asher leaves, I hate the way these look against my skin. They don't really hurt much, though. Mostly, I'm just stiff.
I pull on a robe, shuffle to the living room, and collapse on the couch.
The first thing I do is grab the remote. I need noise, something to fill the blank space where Asher's voice should be. The TV is already set to the local news, an early morning show playing. I don't change the channel, opting to get lost in someone else's problems for a while.
It takes me a minute to register the words scrolling across the bottom of the screen in bold letters.
BILLIONAIRE CEO ARRESTED FOR ASSAULT
"No," I whisper, my heart thudding unevenly. But even as I say it, I already know. I feel it in my bones.
A few seconds later, the anchor cuts to a live feed outside a Beverely Hills police station. The reporter's voice is downright infuriating as she dives into the store with a smile on her face. "Late last night, entertainment mogul Asher Blackstock was taken into custody after an altercation with actor Miles Andrews outside a popular Westside club…"
A blurry phone video rolls, full of camera flashes and shouts. I see Asher in handcuffs, flanked by two enormous cops. He looks… serene. Empty, almost, except for the trickle of blood on his knuckles and the unholy smile on his face.
"According to witnesses, Blackstock allegedly assaulted Mr. Andrews in an unprovoked attack. Security intervened, but not before Mr. Andrews suffered a concussion and two broken ribs. We're told the victim is expected to make a full recovery, but sources say Blackstock showed 'no remorse' at the scene…"
A cold fist closes around my heart. I can't feel my hands. I can't even breathe.
I want to scream, but all that comes out is a whisper.
