**Fifteen Minutes Earlier**
The room was silent except for the soft rhythmic beeping of the monitors and the low hum of the air conditioning. Light filtered in through the drawn curtains, casting faint, golden stripes across the smooth white bedsheets and the delicate curve of Serena’s still form.
Marlowe stepped into the room with quiet, clinical intent, her steps almost soundless against the polished marble floor. The scent of antiseptic hung subtly in the air, overlaid faintly with the warm notes of the lavender perfu which she had used sparingly monts ago.
Lucian sat in his usual spot, the single-seater he had insisted be placed near Serena’s bedside when she fell into this unnatural sleep.
He sat with one leg crossed over the other, his back straight and gaze fixated on the phone in his hand. His fingers scrolled with chanical detachnt, but his attention wasn’t really on the screen.
The blue light of the display illuminated the edges of his otherwise shadowed face, and as the door creaked open with Marlowe’s entrance, his eyes flicked up at her.
Saying nothing at first, he rose to his feet, his movents fluid but heavy with sothing unsaid. Without prompt, he walked to the far end of the room, giving her space. It had beco a routine now, an unspoken agreent between them. She handled Serena’s care, and he... he hovered nearby, a watchful ghost who didn’t quite know how to let go.
"I was told by Darrell that you have a eting to attend today," Marlowe said, not even glancing in his direction as she pulled on her gloves and began checking Serena’s vitals. Her tone was steady, professional, and she knew he could hear her loud and clear.
"I do," Lucian responded, flicking his thumb across the screen again before locking it and checking the ti. "I’ll go get ready soon. It’s supposed to be by 1 p.m."
"I think it would be better if you go get ready now," she added, carefully adjusting Serena’s IV drip. "I’ll need to clean her up after administering the dicine."
Lucian hesitated for only a heartbeat. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Marlowe—he did, with Serena’s life more than his own—but every ti he left that room, even for a second, dread took root in his gut. Still, he nodded.
"Alright," he said softly, sparing one last glance at Serena’s serene face before walking out of the room, the door clicking shut behind him.
It wasn’t that he didn’t want to move on or couldn’t. That was what everyone thought, but they just didn’t know what the problem was. It was the fear—a sickening, irrational fear—that she would disappear if he blinked. That he would return and find only cold sheets and empty monitors. It made no sense, but the feeling wouldn’t leave.
Once in his own room, he stripped and stepped into the shower, the rush of water cascading over his skin, washing away the tension clinging to him like oil. He closed his eyes, tilted his head back, and let the water drum against his scalp. He wished it could wash away more than the gri of the day—maybe scrub the ache from his chest, the weight in his bones.
The steam thickened around him, clouding the mirror as he dried off. He had just finished dressing, pulling the last button on his shirt through, when a piercing shriek tore through the silence—the smoke alarm. The blaring noise stabbed through his eardrums, but he didn’t rush. Adrian and Darrell were around, capable and alert. Whatever it was, they would handle it. And if they couldn’t, they would call for his help.
He adjusted his collar and reached for his jacket.
***
Back in Serena’s room, Marlowe had just unfastened the last button of Serena’s dress. She moved with care, treating the woman as though she were made of delicate porcelain. With each wipe of the warm cloth against Serena’s skin, she murmured a silent hope that the lady would stir.
The blare of the smoke alarm made her pause mid-motion, towel clutched in her gloved hands. Her brow furrowed slightly, but like Lucian, she wasn’t overly concerned. The household was fortified and full of competent n. Still, her hands moved a little faster, her grip on the towel just a touch tighter.
Then she heard the door open.
Her brows knitted tightly in confusion. She knew it couldn’t be Lucian. He had never once walked in while she was cleaning Serena. If he needed to pass across an information, he would have knocked and asked her to co to the door.
Her head snapped toward the door, and her eyes widened, her breath catching in her throat.
"Mr. Morgan," she gasped, instinctively grabbing the sheet and tossing it over Serena’s exposed body.
Vincent stood in the doorway, eyes fixed on the bed with an intensity that made Marlowe’s skin crawl. His expression was frozen in sothing between awe and deranged fury, and he made no move to avert his gaze.
"What are you doing here?" she asked, her voice sharp, authoritative now.
That snapped his attention to her. With eerie calm, he reached beneath his jacket and pulled out a pistol, the tal glinting dully under the room’s soft lighting. He pointed it at her with a steady hand.
"Stay away from this, Marlowe. Don’t make use this," he said coolly. "Move."
The barrel tilted slightly, guiding her to the far side of the room.
Marlowe’s heart thudded against her ribs, but she obeyed. Slowly, carefully, she moved where he instructed, her eyes never leaving his. "I don’t know what you think you’re doing, Mr. Morgan," she said cautiously, "but you should stop right now."
He didn’t reply at first. He simply stalked toward Serena, his footsteps light, almost reverent. Then, in a low mutter, he growled, "I knew she wouldn’t have gone all cold on if sothing hadn’t gone wrong. Fucking bastard thinks he can break my woman the sa way he broke others? Not on my watch."
And with that, he began tearing off the dical equipnt—each beeping monitor falling silent one by one. The IV line was the last to go, and it swung limply as he yanked it free.
"What are you doing?" Marlowe cried, horror overtaking her calm. "She is ill, and receiving treatnt. Do you want to kill her?"
"She’ll get better treatnt at the hospital," Vincent snapped, ignoring her protests as he continued his madness. "And all of you will face severe punishnt for having the guts to treat her this way."
"You’re making a mistake, Mr. Morgan," she said, breathless now, panic threading into her voice. Her eyes darted toward the vase on the nearby counter.
"The only person who made a mistake is Lucian," Vincent snarled. "And he will pay dearly for it."
Then he turned around sharply, just in ti to catch her movent. His eyes narrowed. He raised the gun, and Marlowe froze.
"I didn’t co here for you, doctor," he said coldly. "And I don’t intend to hurt you. But if you force my hand, I wouldn’t hesitate."
Marlowe swallowed hard, her lips dry, her body going still. She had been reaching for the vase, a desperate, impulsive move. But he had seen it.
"Go into the bathroom and lock the door," Vincent ordered.
With her hands trembling, she did as he said. The mont the door clicked shut, she leaned against it, heart thundering in her ears, listening.
Back in the room, Vincent returned to Serena’s side and gently gathered her limp body into his arms. He wrapped her with the sheet Marlowe had used to cover her, cradling her as if she were fragile glass. His expression had softened, but the madness in his eyes still glead like oil on water.
As soon as he stepped out of the room, Serena’s unconscious body securely wrapped in the sheet and resting against his chest, he started toward the staircase with the clear intention of leaving.
But his steps faltered instantly when his eyes t with the one person he wanted so much to eliminate at that point. Lucian.
The man had just stepped out of his room across the hallway, sharply dressed in a crisp white shirt, jacket over one arm, his shoes polished to a mirror shine. His tie was knotted with precision, and a sleek silver watch glinted on his wrist as he reached to adjust it.
But his hand stopped midway, his entire body stiffening when his gaze collided with Vincent’s.
He had been on his way to Serena’s room. But now, his focus was unshakably locked on the man standing before him—with his woman in his arms.
Everything stilled, like the air itself had turned brittle. The hallway, which just monts ago had been another stretch of marble and silence, now pulsed with tension thick enough to slice with a blade.
Vincent waited for a word to co out of Lucian, even though the guy’s expression was loud enough.
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