Focused entirely on the path ahead.
He didn’t glance sideways.
Just kept walking.
As if the room behind him—and the woman inside it—had already been placed exactly where she belonged.
Behind him.
I stayed frozen until his footsteps faded down the corridor.
Only then did I slowly peek back into the room.
What I saw made my stomach twist violently.
Violet was no longer lying down.
She was sitting upright.
Her posture was rigid—too rigid for someone who had just been on the verge of death.
Color had returned to her cheeks.
A faint flush.
Her breathing was steady.
No tremors. No coughing. No weakness.
Her fists clenched the bedsheets so tightly that her knuckles turned white.
And her eyes—
Those same eyes that had been glassy, fragile, and tear-filled—were now sharp.
Cold.
Burning with something entirely different.
“Paolo,” she snapped.
Her voice was clear, strong, and ommanding.
“Bring me that table water.”
The young man hesitated for only a second before scrambling to obey, rushing to hand her the glass.
Violet snatched it from him and drank deeply—quick, angry gulps, like she was trying to swallow down something far more dangerous than thirst.
Rage.
She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, breathing harder now, her earlier vulnerability completely gone.
“I swear I’ll kill that bitch Elena myself,” she hissed under her breath.
The words were sharp.
Personal. Calculated.
