The champagne glass hit me before I understood someone had thrown it.

Consciousness returned in fragments: the steady, synthetic *beep-beep-beep* of a heart monitor, the sterile smell of antiseptic mixed with expensive white lilies, and a dull, throbbing ache radiating through my entire right side.

I blinked against the soft, warm light.

This was not a county hospital.

I had been to county once, when I sprained my wrist during a rush-hour shift at a diner. That room had peeling vinyl floors, fluorescent bulbs that hummed like angry bees, and four gurneys separated by thin, stained curtains.

This room had hardwood floors. Floor-to-ceiling panoramic windows looked out over the Chicago skyline, framing Lake Michigan under an overcast, slate-gray sky. A plush leather sofa rested against one wall, accompanied by a marble-topped coffee table overflowing with towering vases of fresh Casablanca lilies.

I tried to sit up, and a gasp tore from my throat as a lance of fire shot through my ribs.

“Careful,” a voice warned.

The sound didn't come from a nurse. It was low, raspy, and thoroughly masculine.

I turned my head slowly. In the armchair by the window sat Damian Vescari.

He was no longer wearing his bespoke suit jacket. His sleeves were rolled up past his forearms, revealing dense, intricate black tattoos—geometric patterns, Latin script, and the head of an eagle running all the way down to his wrists. A faint shadow of stubble darkened his sharp jaw. A porcelain mug sat untouched on the side table beside him.

He looked exhausted, yet his posture remained as rigid as an iron girder.

“You’re awake,” he said, rising to his feet. He moved quietly, crossing the room until he stood beside the bed. His presence was overwhelming, shrinking the luxurious suite into something intimate and dangerous.

“Where… am I?” My voice sounded like gravel scraping across asphalt.

“Northwestern Memorial. Private wing,” he replied, reaching for a plastic cup of water on the nightstand. He held the straw to my lips with surprising gentleness. “Drink slowly.”

I took two sips. The cold water was heaven against my parched throat. “How long?”

“Thirty-six hours. You lost three units of blood on the way to the trauma bay. A fragment of lead crystal severed a branch of your iliac artery. The chief of vascular surgery spent four hours putting you back together.”

My breath caught. “The chief of surgery? I… I don’t have insurance that covers that. I don’t have insurance at all.”

Panic surged through me, sharper than the physical pain. I remembered my bank account. Twenty-three dollars. Rent was due next Tuesday. If I was in a private wing with specialized surgeons, the bill would exceed half a million dollars. I would be bankrupt. Evicted.

I gripped the crisp linen sheets, my heart rate monitor accelerating into a rapid chime.

Damian laid a broad, calloused hand over my knuckles. The heat of his skin instantly grounded me.

“Breathe, Emma,” he commanded softly. “Look at me.”

I looked up. His eyes were dark amber in the morning light, unblinking and heavy with a strange intensity.

“Your medical debt does not exist,” Damian said evenly. “Every procedure, every medication, every minute you spend in this facility is fully settled. In fact, you have an account established in your name at Northern Trust with enough capital to ensure your rent is paid for the next ten years.”

I stared at him, stunned into speechlessness. “You… you were serious? At the gala?”

“I do not make promises I cannot honor,” he answered without hesitation. “You shielded my son with your body. You took glass meant to maim him—or worse. There is no price tag on Luca’s life.”

“Is he okay?” The question slipped out before I could stop it.

Something softened in Damian’s severe features. The tight line of his mouth eased, just a fraction. “He is completely unhurt. He has spent the last two days demanding to see you every forty minutes. I had to threaten to lock his dinosaur collection in my office safe to convince him to go to school this morning.”

A small, breathless laugh escaped me, followed immediately by a wince as my side protested.

“Don’t laugh,” he warned, though a microscopic smirk touched the corner of his lips. “The stitches are fresh.”

“I’m just glad he’s safe,” I whispered. “When I saw him standing there… he was just so small. He couldn’t run.”

Damian’s expression hardened again, the warm moment evaporating into the chill of reality. “He shouldn’t have had to. The glass was not an accident, Emma.”

My stomach churned. “You said that at Bellamy House.”

“The mezzanine was reserved for staff and security,” Damian explained, his voice dropping into that chilling, quiet register from the ballroom. “The tumbler that pierced your side was thrown from a blind spot behind the sound booth. The man who threw it was disguised as a banquet captain. He knew exactly where Luca was standing. He knew Luca is my only vulnerability.”

A chill ran down my spine. “Did you catch him?”

Damian paused, his eyes turning cold. “We found the uniform in an alley three blocks south. We are… working on the rest.”

The door to the private suite swung open with a soft click.

A nurse walked in carrying a clipboard, flanked by Marco, Damian’s hulking security chief. Marco gave Damian a curt, respectful nod before his gaze flicked to me.

“Miss Carter,” the nurse said politely. “Glad to see you’re awake. Mr. Vescari, the doctor needs five minutes with you outside regarding the discharge timeline.”

Damian didn’t immediately move. He looked down at me for several lingering seconds. “Rest. We will discuss your living arrangements when I return.”

“My living arrangements?” I echoed, confused. “I have an apartment in Pilsen.”

Damian’s jaw set. “You had an apartment in Pilsen. We will speak in a moment.”