Time did not stand still, though for Rose, those first few days in Miami felt like it crawled at a snail's pace. Recovery was never graceful. It was not the sweeping, dramatic moment of getting up and walking again after a fall; it was slow, agonizing, and at times humiliating. Yet, every step of the way, Nikolai was there—steady, unflinching, and maddeningly patient.
The suite itself became a world of its own. The penthouse, with its white walls, expansive glass windows, and polished marble floors, transformed into a sanctuary and a prison. The city of Miami glittered beyond the glass—neon lights dancing across the water, the hum of traffic below carrying life and freedom she wasn't yet allowed to join.
Rose spent hours on the bed, propped up against pillows, the air-conditioning humming softly. At first, she hated it. Hated the wheelchair parked in the corner, hated the careful way she was lowered into it, hated the physician who came every day with her clipboard and kind but firm smile.
But with each passing day, something shifted.
The physician, had begun the slow process of teaching Rose how to reclaim her body.
"Small movements," She had said on the first morning after the full checkup. "Your legs are bruised, battered, and weak from the trauma. For now, even lifting your toes or flexing your ankle is progress. Don't underestimate that."
Rose had rolled her eyes at the time. Flexing my toes? That's progress? But Nikolai had crouched down next to the bed, watching her try, his icy blue eyes burning with something unnameable—something between pride and worry. And when her toes finally did twitch, ever so slightly, his lips had curved in the faintest, rarest smile.
It was ridiculous, she thought. One toe movement, and he looked like she had just conquered the world.
---
Days bled into each other. Mornings began with Nikolai waking her up with a soft nudge on her shoulder, his voice low, never startling. "Time to move, Rose." Sometimes she groaned and threatened to throw the pillow at him, but he never relented. He was relentless when it came to her recovery.
Afternoons were devoted to physical therapy sessions. Dr Morozova taught her exercises: leg lifts supported by pillows, stretching with elastic bands, balancing attempts while clinging to parallel bars that had been installed temporarily in the suite's spacious living room.
The first time Rose tried to stand, even with Dr Morozova's help and Nikolai hovering close, her knees shook violently. She cursed under her breath, sweat dripping down her forehead. She collapsed back onto the chair, glaring.
"This is pointless."
"No," Nikolai had said, his voice calm, final, unyielding. He bent down, leveled his gaze with hers. "It's not pointless. You'll get there."
Something about the way he said it—quiet certainty, no room for doubt—lit a fire in her chest. He believed it, so she almost had to believe it too.
---
The bond between them grew in the silences.
Nikolai wasn't one for flowery words. He didn't sit by her bedside whispering promises. He wasn't gentle in the way fairy-tale heroes were. But he was there. When she fell forward during a balance attempt, his arms caught her before she hit the ground. When she cursed, when she threw the elastic band across the room out of frustration, he simply picked it up and handed it back, expression unreadable but eyes holding a glimmer of amusement.
Sometimes she would catch him watching her when he thought she wasn't looking. Not with pity, but with an intensity that unnerved her. As though every tiny improvement was carved into him, reshaping him along with her.
Rose didn't say it out loud, but she liked it. She liked that he was always there. She liked that he didn't flinch at her sharp tongue or sarcastic remarks. She liked that, somehow, this cold, complicated man had become her anchor.
---
Weeks passed. The bruises faded, leaving only faint traces across her skin. Her strength returned in increments. First, the ability to move her ankles without wincing. Then, pushing herself up from the bed with only her arms. Eventually, she managed to take her first few steps, supported by Dr Morozova's steady hands and Nikolai's shadow at her back.
That moment was etched into her memory.
Her legs shook. Her body screamed in protest. Her breath came ragged. But she stood. Upright. Two feet planted firmly on the carpet.
When she glanced sideways, Nikolai wasn't smiling—of course he wasn't. That wasn't him. But there was something in his eyes, something raw and fierce, like the sight of her standing meant more to him than he could ever put into words.
"Not bad, Mr Vampire." she muttered, though the joke lacked bite because her voice trembled.
He only shook his head and muttered back, "Keep going."
And she did.
---
Every night, as the city of Miami shimmered outside, Rose would sit by the balcony, breathing in the humid night air. She would think about Salvatore—about how he used to bring her to cities like this, not as a daughter but as a possession. She never got to admire the lights then. Never got to feel the freedom humming just beyond her reach.
But now, things were different. She was still bound, yes, in ways she didn't fully understand. But with Nikolai, the cage felt… different. It felt like maybe, just maybe, she wasn't trapped anymore.
---
Nikolai stayed true to his word. He never left her side. If meetings or business pulled him away, Alexei was always there, hovering like a silent shadow. But for the most part, Nikolai was the constant in her days.
He brought her meals, sometimes feeding her when her arms trembled too much from the therapy. He made sure her medications were taken on time, his voice sharp when she tried to brush them off. He helped her in and out of the bath, his movements careful, professional, though the closeness sometimes left her heart racing.
Rose would never admit it out loud, but she had started to crave that steadiness.
---
Time became her ally. The exercises grew easier. Pain dulled into soreness. Movements that once seemed impossible became routine. Standing. Walking with support. Taking a step without collapsing. Each achievement was small, but to her, they were monumental.
And through it all, Nikolai was there—quietly relentless, the pillar she leaned on, even when her pride screamed against it.
---
Then, one morning, as the golden Miami sun spilled into the suite, something shifted.
Rose stood by the window, her hands gripping the parallel bars, her legs trembling but holding. She took one step. Then another. And then another. No one caught her this time. No one steadied her.
When she stopped, breathless, her hair clinging to her forehead, she looked up to see Nikolai watching her from the armchair, his iPad forgotten on the side table. For a moment, silence stretched between them.
Then, in the smallest, rarest gesture, he nodded. Just once. Approval.
That nod meant more to her than any applause ever could.
She sank onto the chair, laughing breathlessly. "Finally," she muttered, "no more bed arrest."
Her excitement spilled out in waves. She could finally walk again. She wasn't completely free—her body still ached, her steps still wobbled—but she wasn't bound to the bed or the chair anymore.
And with that realization came another: it was time.
Time to leave Miami. Time to return to Manhattan, where everything had started. Where Salvatore's shadow still loomed, and where her new future—whatever that meant with Nikolai—awaited.
The thought filled her with both dread and exhilaration. But when she glanced at Nikolai, who had already gone back to his iPad, as though her triumph wasn't the most important thing in the world, she smiled faintly.
At least I won't be doing it alone, she thought.