"Survive this," Selene whispered.
"I know you can. I know it, Zenon."
She sat slumped in a chair along the cold hospital corridor, elbows on her knees, one hand pressed to her cheek as silent sobs shook her shoulders. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, indifferent.
Then—
Thud. Thud.
The sound of polished shoes against tile.
Selene looked up.
A man walked past her—early thirties, tall, dark hair neatly styled, dressed in an immaculate black suit. His presence was… wrong. Too calm. Too deliberate. Like he didn't belong in a place where people prayed and broke apart.
Without thinking, Selene stood and reached for him.
"Please," she said, fingers closing around his sleeve. "Are you—are you the owner of this hospital? A doctor—anyone—please tell me my husband will survive."
The man stopped.
Slowly, he looked down at her hand on his arm. Then back at her face.
One eyebrow lifted.
Selene realized what she'd done and released him at once, stepping back, mortified.
For a moment, he only studied her.
Then he smiled.
"Are you crying because of Zenon?" he asked lightly—almost amused.
Her brows pulled together. Her hands curled into fists.
"Yes," she said. "What if something happens to—"
He laughed.
Not a chuckle.
A deep, unrestrained laugh that echoed down the corridor. He covered his face briefly, shoulders shaking, then leaned down until his eyes met hers.
"Zenon Vander?" he said, still smiling. "In a coma?"
Selene nodded stiffly, her face calm but tight.
He straightened and gave her shoulder a casual pat.
"Relax," he murmured. "Zenon doesn't die that easily."
He walked toward the glass wall of the emergency room, hands in his pockets, peering inside like someone checking on a sleeping friend.
"He's just resting," he added. "He'll wake up soon."
He glanced back at her, eyes sharp now.
"So," he said slowly, "you're the flower he talks about."
Selene stiffened.
He didn't wait for an answer.
Instead, he nodded to himself and murmured under his breath, almost fondly,
"Zenon…"
She gathered her courage.
"Are you… a doctor?"
He turned, smiling again.
"Yes," he said. "Just not the kind you're used to."
He opened the glass door—then lifted a hand, stopping her when she instinctively tried to follow.
"Do you want me to do my job?" he asked.
Her throat tightened. She nodded.
Without another word, he stepped inside and drew the curtain closed, sealing Zenon away from her sight.
Selene sank back into the chair, heart pounding.
For the first time since the accident, she wasn't just afraid of losing Zenon.
She was afraid of the world he belonged to.
And the men who watched him sleep—
as if death itself knew better than to touch him.
——
Selene sat on the cold hospital floor, her back resting against the glass wall.
Tears had dried on her cheeks, lashes heavy, her body sinking into exhaustion she couldn't fight anymore.
Every sound felt distant. Every thought blurred.
Then—
The door slid open.
She stirred instantly.
The man stepped out, adjusting his cuffs—then paused when he saw her there.
Surprise flickered across his face.
Selene pushed herself up, brushing dust from her clothes before rushing toward him.
"He's okay, right?" Her voice trembled. "Say something."
"Yes," he said calmly. "Of course."
Her breath released.
"But—"
Her eyes widened. "But what? Why do doctors always have a but?"
He smiled faintly.
"Because we don't sugarcoat."
Her heart slammed.
"He's not conscious for now," he continued. "Who knows… maybe he's choosing not chuckled lightly, looking down at her.
Selene's breath hitched.
No.
Her Zenon—her baby maker—wouldn't choose a coma.
"I'll find him," she said suddenly, trying to move past him. "I'll show you—"
His hand caught her arm.
"Don't touch me," she snapped, pulling back.
"The only thing you'll show me now," he said quietly, "is how brave—and obedient—you've always been to him."
She froze.
"W–what do you mean?" she asked, confusion flooding her face.
He leaned closer, his voice dropping.
"Have you ever asked why he ran into that tree?"
Her stomach twisted.
"It was because of you," he said. "He knew you'd be dead if you were in that bed."
The words crushed her.
Selene staggered back, hands bracing on her knees as her breath came out broken.
"Why…" she whispered. "Why would he do that?"
He exhaled slowly.
"That's the first question I'll ask him—when he wakes."
Then his tone hardened.
"But right now, he needs you more than ever."
She straightened slowly.
"What do I do?" she asked hoarsely. "The contract? If it's the contract, I can sign it now."
He shook his head.
"No. Not that."
Her brows knit.
"Then… what?"
"You."
Her heart skipped.
"Me?"
He tilted his head slightly.
"There's no time for long explanations," he said. "But Zenon has only one wish right now."
He stepped back, deliberately giving her space.
"For you to be safe."
Her throat tightened.
"And you can't do that alone," he added. "Neither can he—like this."
Silence pressed between them.
"What are you saying?" she asked.
"We're leaving," he said.
He bit his lip, clearly displeased with the words.
"With me."
Her eyes widened.
"We? Me and you? Where?"
He rubbed his face in frustration before looking at her again.
"To his house. Where else would I take you?"
She opened her mouth, panic rising.
"But I don't even know you," she said. "I don't trust you. And I—I don't want to go with you."
He nodded slowly.
"Neither did I ever want to save you," he replied. "Or risk things for you."
"Then let's not do it," she said quickly. "We go our separate ways."
He cut in sharply.
"So Zenon Vander cuts my throat off later?"
Her chin lifted.
"My husband wouldn't do that. I know him."
He stared at her.
"Are you always this stubborn?" he muttered. "Zenon was right about you. I thought he was exaggerating."
She blinked—then smiled faintly.
"Does he talk about me a lot?"
He shot her a sideways look, then groaned, rubbing his temples like her presence physically irritated him.
"Don't ask me that."
He straightened.
"Now listen carefully," he said. "From this moment, you follow me. You do what I say. You don't wander. You don't question."
His hands clenched at his sides.
"Am I clear?"
She raised a brow.
"What's your name?"
He sighed—deep, tired, irritated.
"Elvin," he said.
Then, after a pause—
"Elvin Vander."