I followed, stopping just outside the door, careful not to be seen—half-hidden by the frame, pressed against the wall, letting the cold seep into me as if it could keep me steady.
My heart hammered so violently it felt like it might give me away.
The corridor smelled of antiseptic and fresh lilies.
I pressed my palm flat against the cool wall, forcing air into my lungs.
Then I looked in.
Vincenzo didn’t hesitate.
The moment he stepped into the room, everything about him changed.
He moved straight to her bedside, like the world outside didn’t exist.
“Violet...”
His voice softened instantly.
Not just softer—lower.
Urgent.
Stripped of every layer of ice he usually wore, every trace of that cold, controlled distance he showed everyone else.
He reached out, placing the back of his hand against her forehead.
The gesture was instinctive and intimate.
“She’s burning up,” he said sharply, turning his head toward the room.
“Why the hell aren’t the doctors here yet?”
His tone snapped back just enough to carry authority.
The young man shifted nervously at the foot of the bed, wringing his hands slightly as if unsure where to stand in a moment like this.
“They just left, sir,” he stammered. “They said they’d be back with more fluids—”
But Vincenzo wasn’t listening anymore.
Because Violet moved.
Her eyes fluttered open—slowly, weakly.
Her lashes trembled, her gaze unfocused for a moment as if it took effort just to hold them open.
She looked fragile.
Her skin had a waxy pallor under the harsh hospital lighting, lips pale, almost colorless.
“Vin...” she whispered, her voice barely audible.
“You came...”
The words broke something in the room.
In me.
