Chapter 2

The sterile smell of antiseptic filled Cayla's senses as she slowly woke up. She was in a hospital room, the white sheets scratchy against her skin.

Grafton stood by the window, his back to her. His posture was rigid, his silhouette cutting a sharp, angry line against the morning light.

He turned, his face a cold mask.

"You're awake," he stated, his voice devoid of warmth. "What were you thinking, pulling a stunt like that? Did you think it would make me feel something for you?"

Cayla tried to speak, but her throat was raw. A dry cough escaped her lips.

Grafton's expression didn't soften. "Let me be clear, Cayla. I don't love you. I never will. All this sacrificing yourself... it's pathetic."

She lowered her eyes, staring at the white blanket. What was the point of telling him about Justen? About the promise? He wouldn't believe her. He would just see it as another desperate ploy for his attention. She had learned long ago that with Grafton, silence was her only defense.

"I understand, Mr. Mcleod," she said, her voice hoarse.

He watched her, a flicker of something-annoyance? confusion?-in his eyes. He seemed thrown by her quiet acceptance. He had expected tears, arguments.

His tone softened almost imperceptibly. "Take a few weeks off. Rest."

Then, as if moved by an impulse he didn't understand, he pulled a chair to her bedside. "I'll stay."

For the first time in five years, a spark of light appeared in Cayla's eyes. It was a small, fragile thing, but it was there.

"Why are you so happy?" Grafton asked, genuinely bewildered.

She looked at his face, so much like Justen's. "Just... happy to see you," she whispered.

He felt a strange pang in his chest, an emotion he couldn't identify. He was about to say something, anything, when his phone rang.

It was Cherrelle. Her voice was tearful and panicked. "Grafton, darling, I... I fell. My ankle hurts so much. Can you come? I'm scared."

Grafton's gaze instinctively shot to Cayla. He saw the flicker of hope in her eyes die, replaced by a familiar, weary resignation.

"You should go to her," Cayla said, her voice flat. "She needs you."

He hesitated for a fraction of a second, a war raging inside him. Then he stood up.

"Right," he said, his voice clipped. He turned and walked out, not looking back.

The moment the door clicked shut, Cayla's faint smile vanished. Her eyes burned, but no tears came. After five years, she had forgotten how to cry.

A commotion erupted outside her door. Nurses were chattering excitedly.

"Did you hear? Mr. Mcleod just booked the entire VIP floor for his girlfriend!"

"Just for a sprained ankle? He must really love her."

Cayla listened, her face a mask of indifference. She knew. She had always known.

Later, the wound on her head needed its dressing changed. No one came. Grafton had paid for the room, but his attention, and the attention of the staff, was focused on Cherrelle, one floor above.

Cayla got out of bed, her body aching, and tended to the wound herself. She found a small medical kit in the bathroom.

Her hands trembled as she applied the antiseptic. It stung, a sharp, clean pain.

The small bottle of disinfectant slipped from her grasp, shattering on the tile floor.

She bent to pick up the pieces, a wave of dizziness washing over her. The movement pulled at the stitches on her head, sending a fresh spike of pain through her. She stumbled, her world tilting, and crashed to the floor.

Her knee hit the hard tile with a sickening crack. A new, sharp agony erupted, and her vision went dark at the edges.

Biting her lip against a cry, she pushed herself up, ignoring the blood now seeping through her hospital gown. She painstakingly cleaned up the glass, then tended to her new wound.

During the next few days, she would sometimes walk the halls for exercise. On one of these walks, she passed Cherrelle's room. The door was ajar.

She saw Grafton sitting by Cherrelle's bed, peeling an apple for her, his movements gentle, his expression full of a tenderness Cayla had never seen.

He really loved her.

A strange thought entered her mind. If she could help them, make them happy together, maybe Justen would be happy too.

The day she was discharged, she packed her few belongings. As she stepped out of her room, she came face to face with Cherrelle, who was being pushed in a wheelchair by a nurse.

Cayla instinctively moved to the side to let her pass.

Suddenly, Cherrelle let out a cry and pitched herself out of the wheelchair, landing in a heap on the floor.

"Ah! My ankle!" she wailed.

Grafton came running from down the hall. His eyes landed on Cayla, then on Cherrelle sobbing on the floor. He saw only one narrative.

He lunged forward, his fingers clamping around Cayla's wrist like a vise. "What did you do to her?" he snarled.

"I didn't do anything," Cayla said, her voice steady despite the pain in her wrist.

Cherrelle, through her tears, put on a show of magnanimity. "Grafton, don't blame her. I'm sure she didn't mean it. It was an accident."

"I saw you!" Grafton's voice was a low growl. He refused to listen. He shoved her away from him, hard.

Cayla stumbled backward, slamming into the wall. The impact jarred her entire body, and the wound on her head, just beginning to heal, tore open again. A warm trickle of blood ran down her temple.

Grafton loomed over her, his face a mask of fury. "Don't you ever touch her again. Do you understand me?"

He then turned, his expression melting into one of concern. He gently scooped Cherrelle into his arms, his touch infinitely soft. "It's okay, baby. I'm here."

As he carried her away, Cherrelle looked back over his shoulder at Cayla. Her lips curved into a triumphant, malicious smile.

Cayla slid down the wall, landing in a sitting position on the cold floor. The fresh blood stained the collar of her white shirt.

For the first time in a very long time, she felt an exhaustion so profound it settled deep in her bones. A weariness of the soul.