Rewritten scars

A sharp, throbbing pain pulsed through my skull before I even opened my eyes. My body felt heavy, weighed down by something deeper than exhaustion. The air smelled sterile—disinfectant, faint traces of something floral, too clean to be anywhere but a hospital.

Then I heard it. My mother's voice.

"Oh, thank God—" Her words broke off into a choked sob, and a warm hand grasped mine tightly. "Sweetheart, can you hear me?"

I forced my eyelids open, blinking against the harsh fluorescent light. The ceiling blurred, white and unfamiliar, and when I turned my head slightly, pain flared up my neck and into my skull like a cruel reminder.

"Ow," I croaked, my throat dry.

"Oh, baby," my mother whispered, brushing my hair back with trembling fingers. Her eyes were red, mascara smudged from crying. "You scared me so much."

I licked my lips, trying to piece together what had happened. The dinner. The balcony. The fall.

I shot up instinctively, and a fresh wave of pain knocked the breath from my lungs. My head pounded, and I groaned, slumping back against the pillows.

"Easy," a firm voice said. I turned my head slightly—carefully this time—to see a doctor standing at the foot of my bed, clipboard in hand. He had the calm, practiced patience of someone who had delivered this speech a thousand times before.

"You've been unconscious for several hours," he continued. "You suffered a concussion, along with a sprained arm and ankle. Fortunately, the balcony wasn't as high as it could have been, or this would be a very different conversation."

I swallowed, my mouth dry. "So, I just got lucky?"

The doctor gave me a pointed look. "Very."

My mother sniffled beside me, gripping my hand like she was afraid I'd slip away again. "Honey, what happened?" she asked, voice shaky. "Did you—" She hesitated, eyes darting away for a second. "Did you fall, or—"

"I was pushed," I said, my voice low but certain.

Silence.

My mother's fingers tightened around mine, and I felt the shift in the air—like the room had suddenly gotten colder. The doctor's expression didn't change, but I could tell he was watching me closely now, gauging my reaction.

I exhaled slowly, staring at the ceiling.

First night in London, I was drunk

Second night, someone judged and another tried to kill me.

Fantastic.

Can my life get anymore interesting??

The longer my mother held my hand, the stranger it felt. Not because it was unwelcome, but because… well, it was her. She wasn't the overly affectionate type, not the kind to break down in tears over anything—let alone over me.

I watched her from the corner of my eye, the way her fingers clung to mine like she was afraid I'd slip through them. It was unsettling.

"You should rest," she murmured, smoothing my hair back again. "You don't have to talk about this right now."

I frowned slightly. "I just said someone pushed me. Shouldn't that be, I don't know, a bigger deal?"

She hesitated, lips parting like she wanted to say something else, but before she could, the door to my hospital room swung open.

Zach stepped inside first, his presence immediately filling the space. He was just as put-together as before, his Armani suit still crisp, like he hadn't been waiting in a hospital for hours. His expression was unreadable, but there was something sharp in his gaze, something calculating.

And then he followed.

The son.

Still as cold and unimpressed as before, except now, his storm-grey eyes flicked over me in quick assessment, like I was some case file he was checking for damage.

Great. As if this day couldn't get any worse.

My mother stood up immediately, clearing her throat like she was trying to shake off whatever emotions she'd let slip in private. "Zach," she greeted, nodding at him.

"How is she?" he asked, his voice smooth but laced with authority, as if he were demanding the answer rather than asking for it.

My mother glanced at me, then back at him. "She'll recover. But she—"

"I can answer for myself, thanks," I muttered, shifting against the pillows. My head still ached, but I wasn't about to let them talk over me like I wasn't right here. "Concussion, sprains—apparently I got lucky that the fall wasn't worse."

Zach's lips pressed into a thin line. "Someone tried to kill you." It wasn't a question.

I met his gaze, then flicked my eyes to his son, who was watching me just as intently. "Yeah, seems that way," I said dryly. "And I've been in London for what—forty-eight hours?" I let out a humorless chuckle. "Guess I make enemies fast."

The son—who still hadn't said a word—tilted his head slightly, his sharp gaze dragging over me in a way that made my skin prickle. Like he was seeing something I couldn't.

I exhaled sharply, looking back at Zach. "Is this the part where you tell me it was all just an accident?"

Zach's expression darkened slightly, but before he could respond, his son finally spoke.

"No," he said, voice low and deliberate. "This is the part where we figure out who wants you dead."

The whole time they stood there, something about Zane gnawed at the edges of my mind. It was like an itch I couldn't scratch, a feeling of familiarity I couldn't place. I had seen him before—I was sure of it—but no matter how hard I tried to dig through my memory, it stayed just out of reach.

Maybe it was just his face. That sharp, chiseled look, like he was carved from something colder than stone. Or maybe it was his eyes—those stormy grey irises that felt too knowing, like they had stared at me before. But where? When?

The adults didn't stay long. My mother fussed over me for another minute—something about arranging security, something about making sure I was safe—before Zach pulled her away, saying they had things to discuss.

And just like that, I was alone.

Well. Almost.

Zane was still there, leaning against the wall with his hands in his pockets, watching me like I was some unsolved puzzle.

I shifted against the pillows, eyeing him warily. "You know, most people would at least pretend to be friendly in this situation."

His expression didn't change. "I don't pretend."

"Yeah, I got that much already," I muttered. I studied him again, trying to pinpoint why he felt so damn familiar. "Have we met before?"

Something flickered in his gaze, too quick for me to catch. "No."

I narrowed my eyes. "You said that way too fast."

"Because it's a stupid question."

I huffed out a breath, already exhausted. "God, you're impossible."

"Mm." He didn't deny it. Instead, he pushed off the wall and stepped closer, his presence somehow heavier now that it was just the two of us. "Whoever pushed you—did you see anything?"

I frowned, thinking back. "No. It happened too fast. I was just standing there, and then—" I made a vague motion with my hand. "Boom. Gravity."

His eyes flicked down to my bandaged arm, his jaw tightening slightly. "We'll find out who did it."

We?

Chapter 5

I raised an eyebrow. "We?"

"You think I'm just going to let someone kill you?"

I stared at him. "Well, considering you kind of hate me—"

Zane didn't answer he just looked away.

His gaze met mine again, unreadable, intense. "You should get some rest."

I exhaled through my nose, shaking my head. "You're the worst nurse ever."

Zane smirked slightly, the first sign of actual amusement I'd seen on his face. "I'll take that as a compliment."