Chapter 4: Out in the Cold

The ticking of the heart monitor was especially harsh in the silence. Every second stretched out, punctuated by the beep of my own stubborn heart. The window showed a sliver of gray morning, dew clinging to the glass.

After a moment, my dad nodded. “After signing the agreement, you must keep this matter secret, and go abroad before they get married.”

His voice was cold, but there was relief in it. A deal struck, another problem managed.

“No problem.” I agreed. “You can leave now.”

I turned my face to the wall, pulling the hospital blanket up, closing myself off.

I pulled the blanket over my head and didn’t look at their expressions anymore.

If I never saw their faces again, maybe I could forget how little I mattered to them.

From beginning to end, after they came in, they never once asked me if I was in pain.

They talked about business, reputation, Lily—never me. Not even a simple, ‘Are you okay?’

My eyes were sore. I gripped my hands tightly, my nails nearly digging into my palms.

The pain was sharp, grounding. At least it reminded me I was still alive.

Since it’s like this, then I don’t want them either.

If family could be traded away, then maybe I was better off without one.

In that suffocating space, I forced back my tears.

I wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of seeing me cry. Not now, not ever again.

I heard footsteps approaching.

A different rhythm—slow, heavier. I braced myself for another round.

The next second, the blanket was gently lifted.

A breath of cool air hit my face. I blinked up, startled, caught between fight and flight.

As fresh air rushed in, I was caught off guard and met Evan McAllister’s eyes.

His gaze was tired, the kind you get after pulling an all-nighter in a college library. There were bruised shadows under his eyes, his hair rumpled for once.

He looked exhausted, with dark circles under his eyes—clearly, he’d been watching over Lily Harper all night.

His shirt was wrinkled, tie loosened, a coffee stain near the cuff. He looked less like my fiancé, more like a man carrying a weight he couldn’t put down.

When his gaze landed on the bandage on my forehead, a complicated emotion flashed through his eyes.

I saw a flicker of guilt, pity, something I couldn’t name. For a split second, I wondered if he might actually care.

“Are you hungry?”

His voice was gentle, almost hopeful—like he wanted to fix everything with a bowl of soup.

“I brought the chicken noodle soup you like. Try it.”

I could smell it—the steam rising from the plastic container, the kind of comfort food you bring someone when you’ve run out of words.

I kept my face blank, my voice cold: “Save it for Lily. I’m not hungry.”

I turned away, pulling the blanket tighter. I wouldn’t let him see me hurt.

Evan frowned, not expecting me to be so cold, a bit displeased. “What are you upset about now?”

His patience was running thin. For once, he wasn’t perfect. There was frustration in his tone, his fingers drumming against the tray table.

He reached out to touch my wound. “Still so stubborn, even when you’re hurt. Does it hurt?”

His hand hovered, gentle but hesitant. I flinched away, not wanting his pity.

I turned my head to avoid him.

He sighed, the sound heavy with disappointment. For a moment, I almost gave in—almost let him see how much I was hurting.

“She’s stable now.” His hand froze in mid-air for a moment, then finally dropped to his side, his knuckles turning white.

His words hung in the air, as if that was supposed to make everything better.

“I’m here now…”

He tried to sound reassuring, but it just made me angrier. Here for who? Me, or his conscience?

I cut him off. “Should I be grateful? Thank you, Mr. McAllister, for taking time out of your busy schedule to bring me a bowl of soup?”

I let every syllable drip with sarcasm. If he was here out of obligation, I didn’t want it.

His eyes darkened, his chest heaving with anger.

I saw the struggle in his face—wanting to yell, wanting to understand. But he just clenched his jaw and wiped the soup from his shirt, jaw tight, not meeting my eyes.

“Maya Harper, do you have to talk to me like this?”

His voice shook, but he held it together, barely. He used my full name, the way people do when they’re at the end of their rope.

“Then how should I talk?” I looked up and met his gaze. “Wish you two a happy ending—would that be enough?”

My voice was raw, stripped bare. I wanted him to know just how much it hurt.

“Maya!” Evan was furious, slamming the bowl down on the cabinet with a loud crash.

The sound made me jump, soup sloshing over the side, broth splattering across the faux wood. Even Evan lost his composure sometimes.

We just stared each other down, the air frozen between us.

For a moment, neither of us breathed. We were two statues in a room full of ghosts.

After a long time, he closed his eyes, suppressing his emotions. “I watched the security footage. You kicked her. Maya, come on, go apologize to her, okay?”

He spoke as if reading a script, trying to sound reasonable. It made my blood boil.

I looked at him and suddenly laughed. “Evan McAllister, you might as well just kill me.”

My laughter was bitter, hollow. I meant every word.