“Married to the Cruel Tycoon”

The hospital walls felt like they were closing in.

Sterile. Too white. Too bright. The scent of antiseptic curled in Selene's nostrils like poison, burning her throat, anchoring her back into a reality she didn't want to accept.

She watched the doors to the operating room slam shut behind Lila's gurney, and something inside her fractured.

Her knees buckled.

Only Dante's arm, firm and unrelenting around her waist, kept her upright.

She didn't know when he had crossed the hallway to her, or when his hands had become her only tether to gravity—but she hated that she needed his strength now. Hated that he was the only solid thing in a world unraveling around her.

"She's strong," he murmured. His voice was low, calm, like a glacier beneath her hysteria. "She'll make it."

"You don't know that," she whispered hoarsely. "You don't—"

Selene shoved him off and staggered backward until her shoulder slammed into the cold wall. Her palms trembled as she pressed them to her mouth.

There was blood on her hands.

Not metaphorical. Not imagined.

Real.

Warm, red, and sticky from when she cradled her sister's head.

"She was bleeding internally, Dante. She could die. Don't tell me she'll be fine like it's a business deal you already negotiated—"

His eyes, sharp as obsidian and unreadable as ever, narrowed.

"It is a deal. And I just signed it." He looked down the hallway. "They needed authorization for the surgery. Your insurance wouldn't cover what they needed in time. So I covered it. All of it."

Selene blinked. "You what?"

"She's already in the OR. I gave them permission for the experimental procedure. The one that gives her a real chance." A pause. "It'll work. It has to."

For a second, she couldn't breathe.

Not from fear. From the weight of what he'd done.

He had decided without her. Taken control again. Taken something sacred—and made it his.

But this time… this time, she wasn't sure if she could hate him for it.

"You didn't even ask me," she said softly. "You just... acted."

"Because hesitation would've killed her."

Silence stretched between them. Only the distant beep of heart monitors and the soft squeak of nurses' shoes on linoleum filled the void.

Selene looked down at her blood-streaked hands again. "How much did it cost?"

He shrugged a shoulder. "Doesn't matter."

"Dante—"

"Selene." His voice was a warning now. Soft but edged. "If you thank me, don't make it sound like a debt."

A long pause.

She stared at him. Into him.

The shadows under his eyes. The unspoken truth behind them. The haunted look from last night. The photograph. The memory she couldn't find. The past that didn't fit the version of her life she thought she knew.

Nothing about Dante Blackwell made sense anymore.

And yet—

Here he was.

Again.

Saving someone she loved without asking if he should.

Why?

"You didn't do this for Lila," she whispered. "You did it for me."

He stepped forward.

One step.

Then another.

Until she could feel his breath on her face, slow and warm, laced with coffee and steel.

"No," he murmured. "I did it for us."

Her stomach twisted. "There is no us."

"There always was."

He brushed his fingers against her cheek—softly, reverently—as if she might vanish.

"You just forgot."

Her pulse skidded. "Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Make this about a memory I don't have. About something you remember and I don't. It's not fair—"

"I'm not asking for fair." His voice dropped. "I'm asking for truth. And time. You want to hate me, Selene? Fine. But not for saving your sister."

Tears finally spilled down her cheeks.

Hot. Relentless.

She turned her face away, shame crawling through her chest like a slow rot.

"I didn't ask you to save her," she whispered.

"No," he said. "You just prayed someone would."

That broke her.

Selene sagged forward, sobbing into her hands as the weight of days, weeks—years—crushed her.

Grief. Guilt. Fear. Rage.

All of it bled through her tears in heaving, shaking breaths.

And Dante—he didn't say a word.

He just sank beside her on the bench, wrapped an arm around her trembling body, and held her.

Tightly.

Like something he couldn't afford to lose again.

---

Hours passed.

The surgery lasted longer than they said it would.

Each minute carved into Selene's bones. Her body ached from stillness. Her mind burned from overthinking.

Eventually, a doctor emerged. He looked tired. Pale. His gloves were streaked with red.

"Miss Hart?."

Selene surged to her feet. "How is she?"

The doctor removed his mask. "We got the bleed. She'll be okay. But the next twenty-four hours are critical."

A sound escaped Selene's chest—half sob, half gasp.

She crumpled forward, catching herself on the wall as her knees buckled. Relief hit like a tidal wave, swallowing every sharp edge inside her.

"Can I see her?"

He nodded. "She's still unconscious, but yes. Soon."

Selene turned back to Dante. Her throat worked as she tried to form words.

He was watching her—not with smugness. Not with satisfaction.

Just quiet, contained intensity. Like something that had been caged too long and was waiting to be set free.

She didn't want to owe him.

She didn't want to need him.

But right now... she did.

She stepped closer. Her voice cracked.

"Thank you."

His gaze darkened.

"Don't thank me," he said, brushing a tear from her cheek with the backs of his fingers. "Just... don't ever leave."

Her breath caught.

"What?"

He moved closer. His forehead brushed hers, his voice a whisper only she could hear.

"Whatever memory they took from you... it doesn't matter. We'll get it back. But I meant what I said."

His fingers slid into her hair, anchoring her to him.

"You're mine, Selene. You always have been. And I won't lose you again."

Before she could respond—

Before she could even think—

He kissed her.

Soft.

But firm.

A vow.

Not of love.

Of possession.

Of war.

And as her lips trembled beneath his, Selene realized something far more terrifying than losing herself again—

She didn't want to pull away.

But outside the hospital, in the backseat of a black SUV parked beneath the floodlights…

A man lit a

cigarette with bloodied hands.

He watched the entrance.

Watched them.

And smiled.

"Found you," he muttered, voice thick with Slavic venom. "Now let's see how far the king will bleed to protect his stolen queen."