The rain outside blurred the city lights, streaks of silver running down the glass like they were in a hurry to escape.
Adrian stood still, one hand braced against the window frame, his reflection staring back — sharp suit, cold expression, but eyes betraying the thing he hated most: awareness.
The kind Alex had seen.
He told himself it wasn't guilt. Not regret. Certainly not care.
But the image refused to leave him — Talia, drenched and shivering in the lobby that night, walking into the storm alone because he had driven away. Hours later, she'd been lying in a hospital bed, pale from exhaustion.
And worse — vulnerable.
A muscle worked in his jaw. The thought of her, alone in the dark, passing streets where men might have looked at her the wrong way — where some might have tried to touch her — made his chest feel tight in a way he couldn't name. He hated that.
He hated imagining her looking afraid.
He hated that other men might have seen her like that — wet hair clinging to her skin, clothes sticking to her frame — and thought they could take something from her.
That image burned through him like whiskey down his throat.
He could almost hear their laughter, their voices, and it sent a slow, cold rage curling through his veins.
It shouldn't matter.
She was a cook. A cleaner. She had no place in his thoughts.
And yet, she was there — stubborn as a shadow he couldn't shake.
With a quiet, frustrated curse, Adrian turned away from the window and poured himself a drink, the amber catching the warm lamplight. The burn of it in his throat didn't ease the thought that was starting to anchor in his mind:
He didn't want Alex checking on her.
He didn't want any man near her.
Not because it was unprofessional — but because she should have been protected.
Because it should have been him.
At noon, Adrian stands at the edge of his office window, watching the city move beneath him. His assistant enters quietly, iPad in hand.
"She's still at St. Luke's, sir."
He nods once. "Fine."
Then he speaks, calm but cold:
"Send a company vehicle to pick her up. No delay. Have a female staffer accompany the driver. Make sure she's escorted directly to her apartment—no detours."
The assistant types quickly.
"Should I notify HR?"
Adrian turns to her, face stone.
"She's to resume work tomorrow. Full schedule. No 'light duty.' We hired her for a role, not a recovery."
"But sir," the assistant hesitates, "given the circumstances—"
He cuts her off.
"We all have our circumstances. She can choose to rise… or she can step aside."
Silence.
Then he adds, as if it's a kindness:
"Include a wellness package. Food. Meds. Anything she needs. Make it clear her expenses have been fully covered—medical, transport, housing support for one month. But also make it clear:"
"If she doesn't report to Wolfe & Co. by 9 a.m. tomorrow—she's no longer with us."
The assistant nods, slowly.
"Yes, Mr. Wolfe."
St. Luke's Medical Center – Late Afternoon
Talia is sitting quietly in bed, staring out the window. She looks better—but not ready. She holds Alex's hoodie in her lap, fingers clinging to the sleeves.
A nurse walks in. "Miss Brooks, you've been cleared for discharge. A car's here to take you home—sent by Adrian Wolfe."
Talia blinks. "What?"
The nurse hands her a white envelope. Inside is a letter on Wolfe & Co. letterhead.
It reads:
"Your medical bills have been paid in full by Wolfe & Co. A recovery package has been sent to your apartment. Your immediate return to work is expected. Report by 9 a.m. sharp tomorrow. Failure to comply will result in termination of your employment."
No signature.
Just a stamp:
A.W.
Talia stares at the paper, mouth parted.
Her hands tremble.