Rena.
The door clicked shut behind Travis, and the world tilted on its axis. One hundred. A perfect, golden score of loyalty from the man who had tormented me for years. And a venomous, pulsing red three from the man who was supposed to love me.
My head was spinning, and it had nothing to do with the concussion.
Before I could process the sheer insanity of it, the door opened again. It was Troy. He looked agitated, his eyes darting around the room as if searching for a lingering ghost.
His number was back to a stable, deceitful pink ‘3’.
“He was here,” Troy said. It wasn’t a question. “Travis Thorne was in your room.”
I kept my face placid, my voice weak. “He heard about the accident.”
“What did he want? What did he say to you?” Troy’s voice was sharp, a distinct contrast to his worried fiancé act from before.
“He came to gloat,” I said, letting a bit of manufactured weariness seep into my tone. “He said I looked like hell. He said I was a disappointment for taking myself off the board. The usual.”
Troy seemed to relax, just a fraction. “The man is a vulture. I can’t believe security let him in here.”
“They tried to stop him,” I said. “He doesn’t listen very well.”
“I’ll have him barred,” Troy snapped, pacing near the foot of my bed. “You need to rest. No more visitors. Especially not him. I’ll make sure of it.”
His controlling nature, something I once saw as protectiveness, now felt like the bars of a cage closing around me. He was isolating me.
“I’m tired, Troy,” I murmured, closing my eyes.
“I know, my love. I know.” His tone softened again, the smooth manipulator back in place. “I told the nurse to hold off on the extra medication. Dr. Evans said it could make you more confused. We don’t want that, do we?”
My eyes remained closed, but my mind was a flurry of activity. He was controlling my medication. My visitors. My company.
His phone buzzed in his pocket, a harsh, insistent sound. He pulled it out, his back to me, and glanced at the screen.
“It’s the office,” he muttered, his thumb flying across the screen. “Always a fire to put out.”
He walked over to the small window, his voice dropping to a low murmur. I couldn’t hear the words, but I saw the tension in his shoulders. He was stressed. Good.
He finished his message and turned back to me, forcing a smile. “Just board members getting jittery. I handled it.”
“Of course you did,” I said.
He came to the bedside, placing his hand on my forehead as if checking for a fever. His touch made my skin crawl.
“Get some sleep, Rena. That’s an order.” He winked, a gesture that was probably supposed to be charming. It felt threatening.
“When you leave, I will,” I replied.
“I’m going now. I have to go deal with this mess at the office in person. But I’ll be back tonight. I promise.” He leaned down and kissed my cheek. It was a dry, cold kiss.
Then he turned and walked out of the room, shutting the door softly behind him.
I waited, counting the seconds. One. Two. Three. I held my breath, listening for his footsteps to fade down the hall.
When I was sure he was gone, I opened my eyes.
And there it was.
Sitting on the white bedside table, next to a plastic pitcher of water, was his phone. A sleek, black rectangle of glass and metal. He had set it down while he was talking. In his haste, in his agitation, he had forgotten it.
My heart started to pound. A frantic, wild rhythm against my ribs. This was a chance. A terrible, wonderful chance.
My body screamed in protest as I pushed myself up. Pain shot through my side, hot and sharp. I bit my lip to keep from crying out, my vision swimming with black spots.
I reached out a trembling hand, my fingers stretching across the small gap. They brushed against the cool glass. I curled them around the phone and pulled it toward me, cradling it against my chest like a precious jewel.
My hands were shaking so badly I almost dropped it. I took a deep breath, forcing myself to be calm. To be cold. To be the CEO he was trying to replace.
I pressed the side button. The screen lit up, asking for a passcode.
Six digits.
For a moment, panic seized me. What if I didn’t know it? What if he had changed it?
Then I remembered. He had told me once, laughing about how sentimental he was. He wasn’t a creative man. He was a creature of habit. Of ego.
My birthday. 081491.
My fingers, clumsy and stiff, tapped the numbers.
Click. The phone unlocked.
I was in. I felt a surge of triumph, quickly followed by a wave of dread. I didn’t want to know. But I had to.
I opened his text messages. The screen was filled with names I recognized. Board members. Lawyers. His personal trainer.
Then I saw it. At the top of the list. A conversation with an unknown number. Just a string of digits, no name attached. The last message was from just a few minutes ago.
My thumb hovered over the screen. This was it. The point of no return. I tapped it.
The conversation loaded. There were only a few messages, all sent today.
Unknown Number: Any news?
Troy: She’s awake.
Unknown Number: And? Is she talking? Does she remember?
Troy: She’s weak. Confused. Doctors say it’s the concussion.
And then the last message. The one that made the world stop.
Unknown Number: So we proceed? Or wait?
Troy: We wait for now. But get ready. The brakes didn’t finish the job.
The words burned themselves onto my retinas. The brakes didn’t finish the job.
It wasn’t an accident. It wasn’t a mechanical failure. It was an attempt. An execution that had failed.
A violent wave of nausea rose up from my stomach, hot and acidic. I clamped a hand over my mouth, the phone falling from my other hand onto the thin hospital blanket.
The room was spinning. The steady beep of the heart monitor seemed to mock me, a clinical confirmation that I was still alive. A problem Troy and his faceless partner still needed to solve.
I was going to die. They were going to come back. They were going to finish the job.
The air was too thick. I couldn’t breathe. My lungs felt like they were collapsing. Panic, cold and absolute, wrapped its icy fingers around my throat.
Suddenly, the door opened again. Not with a soft click, but with a quiet, deliberate push.
Travis Thorne stood there.
He had come back. My eyes, wide with terror, flew to his.
He took in the scene in an instant. My panicked state, the phone lying on the bed, the way I was clutching my own throat.
I expected questions. I expected a mocking comment or a sharp interrogation.
He said nothing.
He simply walked into the room and closed the door behind him, the lock engaging with a heavy, final thud.
Then he turned and stood in front of it. A guard. A wall. A barrier between me and the rest of the world.
He didn’t ask what was wrong. He didn’t ask what I had seen. He just stood there, his broad shoulders blocking the only exit, his dark eyes fixed on mine, full of a terrifying and absolute certainty.
And above his head, the golden ‘100’ seemed to pulse, a star burning away the shadows, a silent, unwavering promise in the suffocating dark.
