He did.
“I’m not bleeding out. I’m not brain-dead. Please stop acting like I flat-lined.”
He closed his eyes, breath leaving him in a long shaky exhale.
“You don’t understand what it sounded like. Hearing that some girl had gone down and knowing before they said your name it was you.”
His thumb traced slow circles on my wrist like he needed constant proof of my pulse.
“You have to go. My family, they’re going to demand to see me. If they walk in and find you here?—”
“They won’t.”
“Vince.”
He didn’t move.
“I just want to get discharged and go home. Preferably without starting an international incident.”
His jaw clenched. He nodded once, but stayed seated. Fingers drifted over the back of my hand, grounding himself there.
“I hate that Moreau bastard touched you,” he muttered.
My crow had some serious obsessive and possessive tendencies.
“He picked me up so I didn’t smash my skull.” My eyes rolled. “You can send him a fruit basket with a threat letter later.”
“I’m not thanking him for doing a job that was mine.” His gaze stayed on my hand, thumb moving back and forth. “I love you.”
I let my head drop back into the pillow. “Lucky for you. I love you too.”
My stomach dropped. Because the realisation hit. “God. The footage. Veil is going to have a field day.”
Panic flared hotter than the humiliation had. Veil loved dynasty disasters. Slow-motion collapses. Frozen expressions. Captions dissecting body language like it was war strategy.
“It’s not,” Vince said.
“What do you mean it’s not?”
“There’s no footage.”
“Don’t lie to me. That platform breathes gossip. There are drones at every gala. Half the heirs are filming each other on stealth mode.”
He handed me my phone.
Veil opened automatically. I hit the event tag, bracing myself for the inevitable—some dynasty girl’s shaky video of my knees giving out, a still shot of Fate Moreau playing savior, the comment section turning it into twenty different narratives.
Nothing.
Trending tags redirected to older content. The event hashtag went nowhere. Any post that should’ve held my name? Empty. Wiped.
My brows knit. “Okay. That’s… not possible.”
“Luca cleaned it,”
“Come again?”
“I didn’t want anything of you on there. So he cleared your traces.”
