Chapter 6

Ashton Donaldson POV:

Camden stood by my bed, his face a mask of conflicting emotions. He saw my resolve, the cold, dead look in my eyes. He knew he had lost me, emotionally, irrevocably. He cleared his throat, trying to regain some semblance of control.

"Ashton," he began, his voice softer, a practiced tone of conciliation. "Let's not talk about the past right now. You need to rest. You need to heal." He gestured vaguely around the sterile room. "I've arranged for your recovery to be as comfortable as possible."

I just stared at him, unblinking. His words were a dull drone against the ringing in my ears, the echo of his betrayal.

He sighed, then reached into his jacket pocket. He pulled out a small, velvet box. My breath hitched. What was this? Another manipulation? Another trinket to buy my silence?

He opened the box. Inside, nestled on blue satin, was a silver locket. It was intricately carved, a delicate, almost antique piece. The silver was worn smooth in places, suggesting years of handling. It was beautiful, undeniably so.

"This belonged to my mother," he said, his voice surprisingly gentle, infused with a rare vulnerability. "She wore it every day. It has her initials, intertwined with my father's." He traced the pattern with his thumb. "It's one of the few things I have left of her."

My eyes, against my will, were drawn to the locket. It was a piece of him, a piece of his history, something personal and cherished. He was offering me a piece of his soul. Or so it seemed.

"I searched for it for years," he continued, his gaze drifting over the silver. "I finally tracked it down. It was... difficult. But I knew you'd appreciate it. Your love for art, for history, for things that tell a story..." He looked at me, his eyes pleading, searching for a spark of the old Ashton, the one who might have been moved by such a gesture.

A tremor went through me. A tiny, almost imperceptible crack in my hardened shell. The locket was beautiful. It was personal. It was his. Was this his way of apologizing? His way of showing me he valued me, beyond the merger, beyond Brianne? A flicker of the foolish hope I thought I had extinguished tried to ignite.

I reached out, my bandaged hand trembling slightly, and took the locket. Its weight was cool against my palm. I opened it. Inside, two faded, sepia-toned photographs. His young mother, smiling, vibrant. And a stern-looking man, presumably his father. A family. A love story. So unlike mine.

"Thank you," I said, my voice flat, devoid of emotion, the words a hollow echo in the sterile room. I wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of seeing my emotion. Not now. Not ever again.

He watched me, a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. A slight frown creased his brow. He couldn't read me anymore. Good.

Just then, my hospital room door burst open. Miller, the security guard, stood there, looking flustered. "Mr. Winters! Urgent call! It's the President's office. Top priority."

Camden' s gaze snapped from me to Miller, his face instantly reverting to its controlled, military precision. The brief moment of vulnerability was gone, replaced by the impenetrable mask of the powerful political scion. "I have to take this," he said, his voice brusque. He turned back to me, his eyes softening slightly. "I'll be back. You rest. Miller will ensure no one bothers you." And then he was gone, a whirlwind of duty and authority, leaving me alone with the locket in my hand.

He always left. Always. His life, his duties, his 'unforgettable love' ... always pulling him away.

I clutched the locket tightly. His mother's locket. A symbol of love, of permanence. He thought it would soften me. He thought it would buy him time. But all it did was fuel my resolve. He thought this was a peace offering. I would turn it into a weapon.

The days that followed were a blur of enforced rest and quiet observation. My injuries slowly healed, my body mending, but my spirit remained a shattered landscape. Miller, true to Camden' s word, was a constant, unobtrusive presence outside my door. No visitors. No phone calls. Just the sterile quiet of the hospital.

But even within those confines, the truth of Camden's priorities was painfully clear. From my window, I could see Brianne's room, just across the courtyard, on a lower floor. And I saw him. Multiple times a day. He would be there, sitting by her bedside, holding her hand, murmuring to her. Sometimes, he' d bring her flowers. Sometimes, he'd just sit and watch her sleep, his face etched with a tenderness he had never shown me.

I watched him, a silent, unseen spectator to their perfect, tragic love story. Each sighting was a fresh stab to my gut, a reminder of my irrelevance. He would leave her room, sometimes looking tired, sometimes looking worried, but he always returned. Never once did he come to my room after that brief visit. Never once did he ask Miller about me.

He was devoted. And his devotion was not to me. The knowledge settled deep in my bones, cold and heavy. He was completely detached from me now. And I was completely detached from him. This was a good thing. It was liberation.

One afternoon, a nurse burst into my room, looking flustered. "Ms. Donaldson! Have you seen it? Your... your locket? The silver one?"

My heart leaped. The locket. I had left it on my bedside table. I looked. It was gone. My stomach clenched. "No," I said, my voice sharp. "It's not there. What happened?"

"Oh, dear," the nurse wrung her hands. "I... I thought... well, I saw Ms. Vincent earlier, she was walking around, feeling much better. She was admiring it. I just thought perhaps..." She trailed off, her eyes wide with dawning horror.

Brianne. Of course. She had taken it. The nerve. The audacity. She wanted to erase every trace of me from Camden' s life, even his mother' s locket. The audacity was almost admirable. Almost.

A cold rage, precise and focused, stirred within me. This was not about Camden. This was about my property. His mother' s legacy. And her blatant disrespect.

I ripped the IV from my arm, ignoring the nurse's panicked cries. "Where is she?" I demanded, my voice low and dangerous.

"Ms. Vincent is in the physical therapy room," the nurse stammered, pointing a trembling finger down the corridor. "But, Ms. Donaldson, you're not supposed to be out of bed!"

I ignored her, my bare feet hitting the cold floor. My arm still ached, my head still throbbed, but a new surge of adrenaline propelled me forward. I didn't care about my injuries. I only cared about getting that locket back. And making Brianne understand that I was not a woman to be trifled with, not anymore. Not ever again.

I found Brianne in a large, brightly lit room, doing gentle exercises with a therapist. She was laughing, a light, carefree sound that grated on my nerves. She looked up, her smile faltering when she saw me, my hospital gown hanging loosely, my eyes blazing.

"Ashton!" she gasped, her face paling. "What are you doing here?"

"Where is it, Brianne?" I demanded, my voice dangerously soft. "The locket. Camden's mother's locket. Give it back."

She clutched her chest, feigning innocence. "Locket? I don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't lie to me," I hissed, taking a step closer, my eyes burning into hers. "You took it. I know you did."

Her therapist, sensing the escalating tension, stepped between us. "Ms. Donaldson, please. Ms. Vincent is recovering. You need to return to your room."

"Stay out of this," I warned, my gaze never leaving Brianne' s. "This is between us."

Brianne, seeing my unwavering fury, dropped her innocent act. A smirk played on her lips. "So what if I did? It's just a silly old locket. Camden won't care. He gave it to me, anyway."

"He gave it to me," I corrected, my voice cold. "He gave it to his wife."

"Oh, Ashton," she simpered, her voice dripping with condescension. "You really are delusional, aren't you? He's with me. He married you as a business deal, a convenience. He loves me. Always has. Always will." She took a deep breath, her eyes glittering with malice. "And that locket? It's probably better off with me. You'll just lose it, or ruin it, like you ruin everything else in your life."

My hands clenched into fists. The rage was a cold, pure force now. "Where is it, Brianne?"

She laughed, a triumphant, mocking sound. "Oh, I put it somewhere safe. Somewhere special. Somewhere you'll never find it." She paused, her eyes narrowing. "Unless you're willing to go looking for it. It's in the abandoned wing of the hospital. The old morgue. Down in the basement. Good luck with that, 'wild child.' Hope you're not afraid of ghosts."

My blood ran cold. The old morgue. She was trying to scare me. Trying to make me look foolish. But she underestimated me. She underestimated how much I hated being played.

"You're a sick, twisted bitch," I said, my voice flat, devoid of emotion. "And you're going to regret this."

I turned on my heel and walked out, leaving her stunned silence behind me. The old morgue. She thought she could break me with a little fear. She thought she could hide what was mine. She was wrong. So very wrong.

I made my way to the hospital basement, my heart pounding, but a grim determination fueling my steps. The air grew colder, the light dimmer. The old wing was deserted, corridors stretching into echoing darkness. The faint smell of decay, of old fear, clung to the air. My injuries screamed in protest with every step, but I pushed through the pain. This wasn't about the locket anymore. This was about reclaiming what was mine. About proving to myself, and to her, that I was not a victim.

I found the door to the old morgue. It was heavy, made of thick, rusted metal, a chilling barrier to a grim past. I pushed it open. The room was shrouded in darkness, the air heavy and still. Rows of cold, steel slabs glinted faintly in the sliver of light from the corridor. My breath caught in my throat. This was a horror movie. But I wouldn' t back down.

I stepped inside, my bare feet on the grimy floor. And then, the heavy door slammed shut behind me. The sound echoed, a final, chilling thud. I whirled around, my heart leaping into my throat. Trapped.

A faint, mocking laugh drifted from the other side of the door. Brianne.

"Enjoy the dark, Ashton!" her voice, muffled but triumphant, called out. "Hope you find what you're looking for! And then... hope you find a way out!"

I pounded on the door, my fist striking the cold metal, but it was solid, unyielding. "Brianne! Let me out of here!" My voice was hoarse, filled with a sudden, icy fear.

Her laughter faded, leaving me in the suffocating darkness, surrounded by the ghosts of the past. My body trembled, not just from the cold, but from a primal fear. My head throbbed, my ribs ached. I was injured, alone, and trapped. In a morgue.

I tried to calm my breathing, to rationalize. She was just playing a cruel game. She would come back. Someone would find me. But the silence that followed was deafening, absolute. No footsteps. No whispers. Just the heavy, oppressive stillness of the dead.

My legs finally gave out. I slid to the floor, clutching my bandaged arm, the pain in my head intensifying. The darkness pressed in on me, a suffocating blanket. I was so tired. So utterly, completely tired. Ashton Donaldson, the wild child, trapped and helpless.

A faint sound, like distant murmuring, barely registered through the ringing in my ears. Voices. Outside? Or was it just my mind playing tricks? I closed my eyes, succumbing to the overwhelming fatigue, the darkness a welcome oblivion. But even as I faded, a single thought echoed in my mind: She won't get away with this. I won't let her.