---- Chapter 6 Emily POV: "He even picked out the color scheme himself," the nurse chirped on, oblivious to the storm brewing inside me. "Soft pinks and whites. So romantic." Romantic. He' d filled my room with the very flower that had sent me to the emergency room in high school with anaphylactic shock. A fact he used to know. A fact he used to tease me about, bringing me a single, perfect rose instead, saying it was the only flower worthy of me. Now, he couldn't even remember what might kill me. "He doesn't love me," | said, my voice a hoarse croak. "He just loves the idea of being a man who loves his wife." The nurse' s cheerful expression faltered. She saw the look in my eyes, the bleak emptiness that no amount of peonies could fill. "Oh. Um, I'll just... go get the doctor," she stammered, beating a hasty retreat. The door swung open again a moment later, but it wasn't the doctor. It was Killian. He was holding yet another bouquet, this time a garish arrangement of lilies. Another flower | hated. "Em," he said, his voice soft, tentative. "You're awake." ---- | didn't say a word. | just stared at the vase of peonies on my bedside table, then back at him. My silence was more damning than any accusation. He followed my gaze, and a flicker of confusion crossed his face before it was replaced by a strained smile. He set the lilies down and reached for the peonies. "You never liked these, did you? | forgot." | pushed the vase off the table. It shattered on the floor, sending water and petals scattering across the sterile tiles. "Get out," | whispered. He didn't get angry. Instead, he knelt, carefully picking up the larger shards of glass. He was trying so hard to be the patient, caring husband, and the performance was making me sick. "Emily, we need to talk about-" "| have nothing to say to you." He winced as a piece of glass sliced his finger. A drop of blood welled up, red and stark against his skin. He instinctively looked at me, his eyes pleading for the sympathy he was so used to receiving. In the past, | would have rushed to his side, fussing over him, cleaning the cut. Now, | felt nothing. | turned my head and stared out the window at the gray, unforgiving sky. A muscle in his jaw twitched. He stood up, his patience clearly ---- wearing thin. He walked over to the bed and gripped my chin, forcing me to look at him. "Listen to me," he said, his voice low and intense. "The accident... it happened so fast. Dallas was closer to the impact. She was right there. | had to get her out first. It was a tactical decision, Emily. Nothing more." Tactical. He was describing choosing her over me, leaving me to bleed out in a wrecked car, as a tactical decision. He let go of my chin and pulled a small, expensive-looking box of chocolates from his pocket. He opened it, offering me a piece. It was my favorite kind, dark chocolate with sea salt caramel. A pathetic attempt at a peace offering. "Have one," he coaxed, his voice softening. "You love these." | slapped his hand away. The box went flying, the chocolates scattering across the floor like brown, meaningless pebbles. "| said," my voice rose, cracking with the force of my rage, "get out. That's when | saw it. The mask of the concerned husband slipped, revealing the arrogant, ruthless billionaire beneath. His eyes darkened, his jaw tightening into a familiar, stubborn line. "Fine," he snarled. "You want to be this way? You want to act like a spoiled child? Remember who pays for this room. Remember who pays for everything. And remember," he added, ---- his voice dropping to a venomous whisper, "who was paying for Leo's treatment." The threat hung in the air between us, ugly and suffocating. | just pointed a trembling finger at the door. He stormed out, slamming the door so hard the window rattled in its frame. The moment he was gone, | collapsed. | burrowed under the thin hospital blanket and cried. | cried for Leo, for the man Killian used to be, and for the naive girl who had believed his promises. The sobs were violent, gut-wrenching things that left me empty and gasping for air. He came back every day for the week | was in the hospital. He brought gifts-jewelry | didn't want, books I'd never read, more flowers | was allergic to. Each time, | threw him out. Our arguments grew louder, more bitter. The nurses started looking at me with pity mixed with disapproval, whispering behind their hands about the difficult, ungrateful wife of the doting tech mogul. They didn't see the man who used my dead brother as a weapon. They only saw the performance. But | knew the truth. And as | lay in that hospital bed, surrounded by the hollow emblems of his "love," | started counting down the days. Not until | was healed, but until | was free.