Chapter 7

Harlow felt as if he might crush her throat. She shoved Cillian away, but before she could get off the bed, he caught her around the waist and dragged her back beneath him.

“Why run?” Cillian pulled off his tie and began unbuttoning his shirt, his voice low. “Since we’ve already been labeled cheaters, wouldn’t it be a waste not to make it true?”

Harlow saw the defined muscle beneath his shirt.

Memory cracked open.

Six years ago, in that sticky summer, two young bodies tangled in a shabby rental apartment. Clumsy kisses. Hesitant touches. Awkward, reckless possession. No skill. No strategy. Every time they came together, it had been because they loved each other too much to do anything else.

And now, the position was almost the same.

Only love had been stripped out, leaving hate behind.

“Cillian Emerson, I don’t want to sleep with you.” Harlow lifted her chin and glared at him. “Is your memory that bad? I told you six years ago. I’m tired of sleeping with you.”

I’m tired of sleeping with you.

Those words were a curse.

Cillian’s hand stopped instantly, the sting cutting through him so cleanly that all desire vanished.

He rolled off the bed, took a cigarette from a pack, set it between his lips, and lit it.

Harlow climbed up from the mattress. Her clothes were still intact, but what had just happened left her feeling more humiliated than waking up naked in this room.

“Get out,” Cillian said coldly.

Fine.

Gladly.

Harlow got off the bed quickly, but before she could steady herself, dizziness hit.

The back of her head, which she had struck when she was drugged, had been aching all along. The violent struggle on the bed had drained the last of her strength.

Blackness rushed over her vision.

Harlow fainted.

Before she hit the floor, she saw Cillian throw down the cigarette and lunge toward her.

Rain carved the black night into broken pieces.

The Cullinan tore through the wet, empty road like a blade through darkness.

Cillian gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles pale with force.

Again and again, his gaze flicked toward Harlow in the passenger seat.

She was unconscious. Her slender body sank into the wide leather seat, her head tilted weakly toward the window. In the glow from the dashboard, her face was white as paper.

“Harlow Gideon,” Cillian called.

No answer.

“Harlow Gideon. Wake up.”

Still nothing.

He swallowed. His chest tightened for no reason he wanted to name.

Using the car’s hands-free system, he called Caspian Wren.

“Mr. Emerson,” Caspian’s lazy voice came through. “Didn’t we just see each other yesterday? Miss me already?”

“I’m bringing someone to the hospital. Meet me.”

“What happened?” Hearing that it involved an emergency, Caspian’s tone sharpened.

“I don’t know the specifics. She fainted.”

“All right. Come through the ER entrance.”

Fifteen minutes later, Cillian handed Harlow over to Caspian.

Fortunately, the examination did not find anything serious. A mild concussion from the blow to the head.

Harlow was transferred to a regular ward.

She lay on the white hospital bed, eyes closed, her face still drained of color.

“When will she wake up?” Cillian asked.

“Hard to say. Maybe in a little while. Maybe tomorrow.” Caspian looked him over as he spoke.

Cillian Emerson was usually dressed with insulting precision, every inch of him ironed into place. Tonight, his custom shirt was visibly wrinkled, one button fastened wrong, the collar loose and open.

And the kiss mark on his neck was especially eye-catching.

Caspian’s mouth slowly curved into a wicked smile. He walked to Cillian and tapped his shoulder with the chart in his hand. “Not bad, Cillian. So this is why you called me in such a rush to save someone? You wore her out badly enough to send her to the hospital? That’s intense.”

Cillian turned his head and looked at him with an expression that said, You should strongly consider shutting up.

Caspian, naturally, considered nothing of the sort.

In fact, he smiled even more obnoxiously. “Look at you. Clothes all messed up, battle damage everywhere. But next time maybe be a little gentler with the lady. Look at that red mark around her neck. Your bedside manners are—”

“Caspian Wren.” Cillian’s voice was not loud, but the pressure in it landed hard. “If you don’t know how to use your mouth, I can have it sewn shut.”

“All right, all right. My mistake.” Caspian lifted both hands in surrender. His mouth, however, remained clinically alive. “I thought you’d forgotten her years ago. Turns out you’ve only just come back, and you two are already rekindling the old flame. Wait, isn’t she married? Are you becoming the other man for love?”

“…”

“Buddy, don’t lose your head. Breaking up someone else’s marriage gets you dragged in public, cursed in private, and judged by every god there is. Listen to me. With your looks and net worth, you can have any woman you want. We have to keep at least one moral line intact. Whatever you do, don’t become somebody’s side piece.”

“Can you shut up?”

Cillian pinched the bridge of his nose and turned to look at Harlow on the bed.

Asleep, she had dropped all her defenses. Her brows were soft, her face gentle, with none of the sharpness she wore while awake. That cruel sentence, I’m tired of sleeping with you, did not look like something that could have come from her mouth.

But it had.

And today, she had said it to his face again.

Cillian could never forget how ruthlessly she had crushed his dignity six years ago. He hated her for playing with his feelings. Hated her for hurting his family.

How could there be any old flame left to rekindle?

“There is nothing possible between us anymore,” Cillian said, his voice cold. “Six years ago, I decided she was dead to me.”

“Six years ago, I decided she was dead to me.”

Harlow jolted awake from the nightmare, her chest tight, air trapped somewhere too deep to reach. She had to sit up before she could breathe properly.

“Ms. Gideon, you’re awake.”

An unfamiliar male voice came from beside the window.

Harlow turned her head. A young man stood there in a sharp suit, neat and efficient. The second he saw her awake, he came quickly to her bedside.

“Do you need me to call a doctor?”

“Who are you?”

“Sorry. I should have introduced myself first.” He gave a polite nod. “Victor Lane. I’m Mr. Emerson’s assistant. Something urgent came up at the firm, so Mr. Emerson asked me to stay here until you woke up and were well enough to go home. I’m supposed to drive you back.”

Harlow heard that sentence again.

Six years ago, I decided she was dead to me.

Last night, for one brief stretch, she had surfaced from unconsciousness just long enough to hear Cillian say it.

Cold. Heavy. Final.