(Mara's POV)
The revolving doors spit me out into the humid night air of Manhattan, and I don't stop moving until I'm three blocks away, heels striking concrete like I'm trying to outrun something. My lungs burn, but it's not from the walk, it's the way my heart keeps slamming against my ribs every time I replay the elevator ride.
Mr. Kane.
Ms. Hale.
That cold, clipped acknowledgment.
The way his eyes slid over me like I was part of the decor.
And still I felt it. The fear of being noticed. Not wanted. Not desired. But noticed as the glitch in his perfect system.
I shake my head hard enough to make the loose strands of my bun whip against my cheek. Stupid. He's Sebastian Kane. Billionaire. Womanizer. The kind of man who collects people the way other men collect watches. I'm nothing to him. I'm an accountant who files invoices and reconciles accounts and pretends the numbers don't make her stomach turn every time she sees how much more Liam needs.
The hospital is only a twenty-minute subway ride away, but as always it feels like hours. I clutch my tote tighter against my ribs as the train rattles beneath the city. My phone buzzes, texts from the billing department. I don't open them. I already know what they say.
When I finally push through the pediatric oncology ward doors, the antiseptic smell hits like a slap. Machines beep in soft, relentless rhythm. I nod at the night nurse behind the desk, she knows me already. Well who in this hospital doesn't?. The pain hits me as I head straight for room 412.
Liam is asleep, small body curled under the thin blanket, oxygen mask fogging with every shallow breath. His eyelashes are dark against pale cheeks. Five years old and already fighting battles most adults never see.
I sink into the chair beside his bed and press my lips to the back of his hand. It's warm and that's a relief.
Footsteps approach behind me. Soft-soled shoes. Nora.
"Hey, mama bear," she whispers, resting a hand on my shoulder. "He had a good afternoon. Fever stayed down. Dr. Vargas says his counts are holding steady, no new infections."
I exhale, the sound ragged even to my own ears. "They're asking for another deposit tomorrow. The experimental protocol isn't fully covered."
Nora squeezes my shoulder once, firm. "We'll figure it out. You always do."
I look up at her. Nora Bennett, night-shift warrior, the only person who knows exactly how deep the hole is and still looks at me like I'm not drowning.
"I made the transfer tonight," I say quietly. "From the… account."
Her eyes flicker. She doesn't ask which account. She doesn't have to. She just nods once.
"You're doing what you have to," she murmurs. "No judgment here. Ever."
I swallow hard. "I keep telling myself it's temporary. Just until he's better."
"And he will be." She crouches so we're eye-level. "Liam's a fighter. And you're the reason he's still fighting."
I nod because if I speak, I'll cry, and I can't afford tears tonight. I need to be steel. For him. I look up at her and force a small, cold smile the kind I've perfected over months of hospital corridors and bad news. It's just a mask, thin as paper, holding everything from spilling out.
Nora stands, checks the IV drip, adjusts the blanket over Liam's legs. "Get some rest if you can. I'll be here all night."
I don't move. I stay right there, watching my son breathe, counting each rise and fall of his chest like it's currency I can't afford to lose.
(Vanessa's POV)
The Maybach glides through Midtown traffic like it owns the road. Sebastian is silent beside me, staring out the tinted window as though the city lights are personally offending him.
He hasn't said a word since the lobby.
Not about the Singapore dinner or about the quarterly projections. Not even about the way his hand flexed once on the armrest when we passed the block where that little accountant disappeared.
Mara Reed.
I saw it.
The way his gaze tracked her through the revolving doors. The way he paused, like he actually paused on the sidewalk while the driver held the door open. Sebastian Kane doesn't pause. He moves and takes.
But tonight he paused.
For her.
The woman who wouldn't even look at him.
I cross my legs, the leather seat whispering under me. My lipstick is still smudged; I haven't bothered fixing it. Normally he'd notice. Normally he'd smirk, maybe drag his thumb across my lower lip and tell me to clean up before we walk into a room full of investors.
Tonight he hasn't looked at me once.
But I couldn't resist staring at him; sharp jaw, eyes narrowed, mouth a flat line. Thinking. But not about me. Not about the deal closing in Singapore. Not about the way I arched against him thirty minutes ago.
This time, about her
I felt the shift in the elevator, the sudden thickening of the air, the way his posture changed when she stepped in. He assessed her the way he assesses everything he intends to acquire: coolly, thoroughly, already calculating weaknesses.
I know that look. The one that says something or someone has just become a challenge.
Every woman in that building would kill for one real look from him. I've killed for it. And she gave him nothing.
And he wants it.
My phone vibrates in my clutch. I pull it out, expecting another dinner reminder from the event coordinator.
Instead it's an internal email. Subject line: Confidential – Preliminary Audit Findings – Q3 Reconciliations
From Julian Cross. Audit.
I didn't open it. I'll check it at the office tomorrow.
I glance sideways at Sebastian again. He's still staring out the window, fingers gently drumming on his knee.
I slip my phone back into my clutch and lean back against the seat, lips curving into the smallest, coldest smile.