The hospital visit had left Ella lighter somehow—drained, but not in the way she used to be after these trips. Her chest no longer felt tight. Her legs didn't wobble with guilt or dread. She'd said the things she needed to say.
Now she just wanted to go home.
Nicholas had insisted on sending his driver, of course. No debate. No compromise.
"Humor me," he'd murmured that morning, brushing his knuckles along her cheekbone as she adjusted her coat. "Please."
So she'd agreed.
When she slipped into the backseat of the sleek black SUV waiting at the curb, Ella noticed the same subtle luxury Nicholas always surrounded her with. Leather interiors. Quiet cabin. Discreet security detail in a separate car a block behind—Nicholas's way of protecting without suffocating.
"Ms. Ella," Liam, the driver, greeted her politely. His voice was always calm, professional but kind. "Back to the penthouse?"
"Yes, thank you."
