Chapter 5

Harper POV:

I woke to the sterile sting of antiseptic masked by the cloying scent of expensive lilies.

I was in a private suite at the Family hospital.

My head throbbed with a dull, heavy rhythm, like a drum beating behind my eyes.

Bennet was sitting in the chair next to the bed.

He was holding my prosthetic hand, kissing the plastic fingers with a reverence that made my stomach turn.

"You're awake," he said.

His voice was thick with a performance of concern.

"I was so worried. You were clumsy, Angel."

Clumsy.

He pushed me.

"Where is she?" I croaked, my throat dry as sandpaper.

"Who?"

"The waitress."

Bennet's face hardened, the mask slipping for a fraction of a second.

"She is gone. I fired her. I told you I would handle it."

"Did you?" I asked, searching his gaze. "Did you ruin her?"

"Completely," he lied.

He stood up and poured me a glass of water.

"Drink. You have a concussion. The doctor says you need rest."

He played the role of the doting husband perfectly.

He fed me soup.

He read to me from a glossy magazine.

He charmed the nurses who came in to check my vitals, flashing them his signature disarming smile.

Then, his phone rang.

Two sharp chimes.

"I have to take this," he said, standing up abruptly. "Urgent Family business."

He walked into the hallway, closing the door but not fully latching it.

I fished the ring from the fold of my hospital gown.

I had managed to palm it and hide it before the nurses stripped me of my clothes.

I pressed the button.

"Is she dead?" Gianna asked, her voice tinny through the tiny speaker.

"No," Bennet whispered. "Just a concussion."

"Good. I want her to see me take her place."

"Gianna, you were reckless at the gala."

"The gala was suffocating. Listen, I have an idea. The doctor said she needs help at home, right?"

"She needs monitoring."

"Let me come to the Villa."

Bennet paused.

"As what?"

"A maid. A nurse. Whatever. Tell her it's for her therapy. Tell her I am there to serve her as penance for breaking her hand. She is pathetic enough to believe it."

I gripped the ring so hard the metal cut into my skin.

"Exposure therapy," Bennet mused, the cruelty evident in his tone.

"The psychologist did suggest facing her trauma."

"Exactly. Let me be close to you, Bennet. In your house. In your bed when she is asleep."

"Fine," Bennet said. "Pack a bag. But you wear the uniform. And you call her Ma'am."

"I will call her whatever you want, as long as I can spit in her food."

Bennet laughed, a dark, low sound.

"Good girl."

The line went dead.

Three days later, Bennet drove me home.

He swept me up bridal style and carried me into the foyer.

The staff was lined up, heads bowed in respect.

And there, at the end of the line, stood Gianna.

She was wearing a black maid's uniform with a crisp white apron.

Her blonde hair was pulled back in a severe bun.

She looked demure.

She looked the picture of repentance.

Bennet set me down.

"Harper," he said, his voice gentle. "Dr. Evans suggested that having Gianna here, under your command, would help you heal. She is here to serve you. To beg for your forgiveness through labor."

He looked at me, expecting gratitude for his cruelty.

Gianna curtsied.

She looked up through her lashes, and her eyes were shining with unadulterated malice.

"At your service, Ma'am," she said.

I looked at Bennet.

I looked at the woman who wanted to destroy me.

I didn't scream.

I didn't cry.

I let my shoulders slump in feigned defeat.

"Okay, Bennet," I whispered. "Whatever you think is best."

He kissed my temple.

"That's my good girl."

He didn't see the fire in my eyes.

He didn't know that he had just let the wolf into the hen house.

But he had calculated without one variable.

I wasn't a hen cowering in the coop anymore.

I was a lioness, silently waiting for the cage door to swing open.