For three days, I sat in a private hospital room and watched Dante breathe. The market reports beside me remained untouched under the white lights and the steady monitor beeps.
He had died twice on the operating table. The surgeons called his survival a miracle. To me, it was a complication.
He had saved my life after spending three years ruining it. Each time I looked at his pale face, gratitude and anger arrived together. There was no clean way to settle that account.
On the fourth day, he woke up.
His eyes opened, cloudy with pain and medication. They found me at once.
His dry lips moved around my name.
“Serena.”
I rose and stood at the foot of his bed with my arms crossed.
“You’re awake.”
He tried to sit up, winced, and fell back against the pillows. He never looked away from
