The Enemy's Perfect Score

Chapter 1

Rena

A light. A sound. A pain.

That is the order of things. A searing white light pierces through my eyelids. A low, rhythmic beeping drills into my skull. And a deep, throbbing pain starts in my head and radiates through every inch of my body.

“Rena? My love? Can you hear me?”

A voice cuts through the fog. Thick and syrupy. Familiar.

I try to open my eyes. My eyelids feel like they’re glued shut with sand.

“Don’t push yourself. The doctor said to take it slow.”

That’s Troy. My fiancé. He sounds like he’s crying.

A soft pressure envelops my hand. His hand. It’s always so warm.

With a monumental effort, I peel my eyes open. The world is a blurry mess of white walls and pale blue curtains. Everything swims.

I blink. Once. Twice. The room slowly sharpens into focus.

And then I see it.

Floating just above Troy’s perfectly styled dark hair is a number. A bright, neon pink number three.

It hovers in the air, crisp and digital, like a hologram from one of my company’s tech demos. A ‘3’.

I squeeze my eyes shut and open them again. It’s still there. Unwavering.

“What…?” The word comes out as a dry croak.

“Shhh, don’t try to talk,” Troy whispers, his face a mask of worried devotion. He leans closer, his thumb stroking the back of my hand. “You were in an accident. A terrible one. The car—”

He chokes on the word, a single, perfect tear tracing a path down his handsome face.

“I was so scared, Rena. When they called me, I thought I’d lost you.”

I’m not listening. I’m staring at the impossible pink digit hanging in the space above him. Brain damage. It has to be brain damage. The doctors must have warned him. Some kind of visual hallucination from the concussion.

“My head…” I manage to rasp out.

“I know, baby, I know it hurts. They have you on the good stuff.” He gives me a weak, watery smile. His eyes are red-rimmed. He looks like a man who hasn’t slept in days.

And yet. The number three.

Just then, the door to my room slides open with a soft whoosh. A woman in blue scrubs bustles in, a cheerful smile on her face.

“Ms. Morris? Welcome back to the land of the living. I’m Clara, your nurse for the evening.”

My gaze flickers from Troy to the nurse. My breath catches in my throat.

She has one too.

Hers is a pleasant shade of blue. A ‘45’.

“How are you feeling, dear? Any pain on a scale of one to ten?”

I stare, mute. Two of them. It isn’t just Troy. The nurse adjusts my IV drip, her movements efficient. The blue ‘45’ bobs along with her head as she moves.

“She’s still very groggy,” Troy supplies, his voice heavy with concern. “She just woke up a minute ago.”

“That’s perfectly normal,” Clara says, making a note on a chart. “The doctor will be in to see you in just a moment. Try to get some rest.”

She leaves, and a wave of dizziness washes over me. This is wrong. This is all so wrong.

“What did the doctors say is wrong with me?” I ask Troy, my voice a little stronger now.

“A severe concussion. Three broken ribs. Nothing that won’t heal, my love. You’re strong.”

“Did they say anything about… my vision?”

Troy frowns. “Your vision? No. Why? Is something blurry?”

I can’t tell him. He’ll think I’m crazy. Maybe I am.

“Just… spots,” I lie.

The door opens again. An older man with graying temples and a white coat walks in, his expression serious.

My eyes immediately shoot to the space above his head.

A dull, clinical gray ‘12’.

“Ms. Morris. I’m Dr. Evans. It’s good to see you awake.”

He comes to my bedside, shining a small light into my eyes. I flinch.

“Pupils are responsive. That’s a good sign,” he murmurs, more to himself than to me. “Do you know your name?”

“Rena Morris.”

“Do you know where you are?”

“A hospital.”

“Excellent. Your memory seems intact. Troy here tells me you were asking about your vision.”

I dart a look at Troy. His face is a picture of innocence.

“It’s nothing,” I say quickly. “Just blurry.”

“Expected, with a concussion of this severity,” the doctor says, nodding. “We’ll keep a close eye on it. Any double vision, severe headaches, you let Nurse Clara know immediately. Understand?”

“Yes.”

“Good. For now, rest is the most important thing. Your fiancé hasn’t left your side.” He gives Troy a sympathetic look before turning to leave.

Once the door closes, Troy is back in my space, his hand finding mine again. His touch feels cold.

“See? Everything is going to be fine,” he says soothingly. “I’ll take care of everything. The company, the press, all of it. You don’t have to worry about a single thing.”

I look at him. At the man I’m supposed to marry in six months. The man who is my partner, my CFO, my supposed other half. The man whose performance of grief is so convincing, so perfect.

But the number doesn’t lie.

What does it mean? A three out of what? Ten? A hundred? It feels low. Terribly, insultingly low.

He leans down, his lips brushing my forehead. His cologne, the one I bought him for our anniversary, fills my senses. It smells like betrayal.

“I almost lost you, Rena,” he whispers, his voice cracking with emotion. His face is inches from mine, his eyes searching mine for a response.

I watch the neon pink ‘3’ floating above him. It’s so solid, so real.

He pulls back just enough to look me full in the face. “I love you. More than anything.”

And as he says the words, I see it happen.

The number flickers.

It glitches, like bad code, the edges blurring for a split second.

Then it reforms.

It isn’t a ‘3’ anymore.

It’s a ‘2’.

Chapter 2

Rena.

My mind reeled. The world narrowed to the space between Troy’s perfectly combed hair and the hateful, glowing ‘2’ that hung there. It wasn’t brain damage. It was a truth serum for my eyes.

He thought I was dazed from the crash, from the drugs. He was right. But not in the way he imagined. The fog in my head was beginning to clear, and what I saw with this strange, new sight was terrifyingly sharp.

He finally pulled away, his expression a perfect symphony of concern. “You look pale. Are you in pain? Should I call the nurse?”

“Yes,” I whispered, my voice a dry husk. “Please.”

I needed him gone. Just for a moment. I needed to think.

He squeezed my hand one last time, his touch feeling like a spider crawling on my skin. “Anything for you. I’ll be right back.”

The door slid shut behind him, and the silence was a relief so profound it almost made me dizzy. I stared at the white ceiling, the rhythmic beep of the heart monitor filling the void. Two. He loved me at a two out of a hundred. The thought was a shard of ice in my gut.

My entire life, my entire future, was built on a foundation of lies.

The door opened again, and Nurse Clara came in, her smile as bright as before. Her number was still there, a calm, steady blue ‘45’.

“Mr. Marks said you were in pain?” she asked, her voice gentle. “Where does it hurt, sweetie?”

This was it. A test. An experiment. I needed to know the rules of this new reality.

I tried to smile, though it felt like my face might crack. “My head, mostly. But I wanted to say thank you, Clara. You have a very kind way about you. It helps.”

I watched the number. I held my breath.

It flickered.

The blue ‘45’ wavered, then solidified again, brighter this time. It was a ‘50’.

My heart hammered against my broken ribs. It worked. Affection. Gratitude. It moved the needle. This wasn’t just a label; it was a living, breathing metric.

“Oh, well that’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me all day,” she said, her cheeks flushing a little. “It’s my job to take care of you.”

“You do it well,” I said, laying it on a little thicker. “I feel safe with you.”

The ‘50’ jumped to a ‘52’. A smaller increase. There were diminishing returns, it seemed.

“About the pain,” I said, my voice deliberately weak. “Is there anything stronger you can give me? It’s really quite bad.”

She looked at my chart, her brow furrowed in concentration. “The doctor has you on a strict schedule, but let me see if I can get him to authorize a small supplemental dose. You look like you’re really suffering.”

Her number held at ‘52’. A professional trying to help a patient.

“Thank you,” I said again, letting my eyes flutter closed as if in exhaustion. “Thank you so much.”

She bustled out of the room, promising to be back soon. I was alone again, the knowledge settling into my bones. The numbers were real, and I could influence them. A terrifying power. A necessary one.

When Troy came back in, he was carrying a sleek leather briefcase. My briefcase, I realized with a jolt.

His number was back to a ‘3’. A stable, placid ‘3’.

“The nurse is seeing what she can do,” he said, setting the briefcase on the bedside table with a soft click. “I thought, while we waited, we could take care of a little business.”

“Business?” My voice was flat.

“Just a few things, my love. Minor, really.” He opened the case and pulled out a thick sheaf of papers, bound in a blue folder. “Some time sensitive acquisitions at the company. They need your final approval.”

He spread the first page on the blanket over my legs. It was a legal document, dense with text I couldn’t begin to focus on.

“Troy, I can’t,” I said, shaking my head slightly. “I can’t even see straight.”

“I know, I know. That’s why I had Stephen draw this up.” He slipped another document from the folder. It was much shorter. My eyes snagged on the title: Limited Power of Attorney.

My blood ran cold.

“It’s just a temporary measure,” he said, his voice as smooth as oil. “It will allow me to sign off on the essential daily operations. To protect the company. To protect your assets. Just until you’re back on your feet.”

I stared at him. At the man I had trusted with my heart, my life, my empire.

“You don’t have to read it all,” he continued, oblivious to the storm raging inside me. “It’s standard boilerplate. It just lets me keep things running. For you.”

I looked at the number. The pink ‘3’.

Then I looked him in the eye. “For me?”

“Of course, for you,” he said, his smile never wavering. He uncapped a heavy, expensive-looking pen. “Always for you, Rena.”

He tried to place the pen in my hand. I let my fingers stay limp. It clattered onto the blanket.

“I’m just so tired, Troy,” I murmured, a calculated move.

“I know. It will only take a second. Just a signature right here.” He pointed to a line at the bottom of the page.

His insistence was a warning siren. A red flag. I needed to stall. I needed to get him out of this room before I did something reckless, like scream.

I kept my eyes on his number. It was steady. Annoyingly, calmly steady.

“What if I don’t want to sign it right now?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

The change was instantaneous and violent.

The placid pink ‘3’ flared. It pulsed, turning from pink to a furious, angry red. The edges of the number sharpened, growing jagged and hostile. It didn’t change its value, but its color screamed a rage he was carefully hiding behind his concerned facade.

He was angry. Deeply, truly angry.

“Rena, we don’t have time to waste,” he said, his tone shifting. The silk was gone, replaced by a thread of steel. “The board is already getting nervous. A CEO in your condition creates instability. This is the simplest way to reassure the market.”

He was lecturing me. About my own company.

It was now or never. I needed an escape.

I gasped, a sharp, theatrical sound. I brought my hand to my temple, letting my eyes go wide with fake pain.

“My head,” I choked out, squeezing my eyes shut. “Oh god, Troy, the light. It’s… it’s splitting my head open.”

His focus immediately shifted. “What is it? Is it a migraine?”

“I don’t know,” I moaned, turning my head away from him, burying my face in the pillow. “It just… started. It’s bad. Really bad. I think I’m going to be sick.”

That was the magic word. He recoiled instantly, pulling the papers away from the bed.

“Okay, okay, just breathe,” he said, his voice laced with frustration he couldn’t quite hide. The number above his head was still pulsing a venomous red.

“Call the nurse,” I whispered into the pillow. “Please. Get the nurse.”

“I will. I’ll get her right now.” He started gathering the documents, his movements quick and irritated. “We can deal with this later. When you’re feeling better.”

He shoved the papers back into the briefcase and snapped it shut with a sharp, final click.

“Just rest,” he said from the doorway, his concerned mask slipping back into place. “I’ll handle everything.”

The door closed, and I was plunged into silence again. I didn't move for a full minute.

Then, slowly, I opened my eyes. The room was empty. The pain in my head was a dull, manageable throb, not the crisis I had performed.

The real pain was the cold, hard certainty that had taken root in my chest. The man I was supposed to marry, the man who held the keys to my company and my life, was my enemy. And he had just tried to get me to sign my own death warrant.

Chapter 3

Rena.

The silence in the room was a fragile thing. A thin sheet of glass I was terrified to break. Troy was my enemy. The words echoed in the quiet, a truth so sharp and ugly it threatened to cut me open. Every beat of the heart monitor felt like a ticking clock, counting down the moments until he returned with his papers and his poison smile.

A commotion erupted outside my door. Raised voices. One low and demanding, the others frantic and official.

“Sir, you can’t go in there.” That was a security guard. I recognized his voice.

“Watch me,” the other voice replied. It was a cold, smooth baritone that sent a jolt of pure adrenaline through my veins. A voice I knew as well as my own. A voice I hated.

The door slammed open, crashing against the wall stopper. The sound was like a gunshot in the quiet room.

Travis Thorne stood in the doorway. He was a storm in a bespoke suit, all dark hair, sharp angles, and furious energy. Two hospital security guards hovered behind him, looking helpless and terrified.

My first thought was, of course he would come. He would never miss a chance to see me weak.

My second thought, my only thought, was to look.

My eyes snapped to the space above his head. I braced myself for a zero. For a negative number if such a thing existed. For a black hole of pure hatred.

What I saw made the air leave my lungs in a silent gasp.

It was a number. One hundred.

It wasn't pink like Troy’s or blue like the nurse’s. It was gold. A brilliant, molten gold that pulsed with the steady, intense light of a captured star. It was absolute. Unwavering. A perfect, impossible ‘100’.

Travis’s dark eyes swept over me, taking in the IV drip, the bandages, the pale fragility of my face against the white pillow. A muscle in his jaw twitched.

“Morris,” he said, his voice a low growl. “You look like hell.”

The security guards finally found their courage. “Sir, this is a restricted area. We have to ask you to leave. Now.”

Travis didn’t even turn to look at them. He kept his eyes locked on me. “Get out.”

He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t have to. The command was laced with so much power, so much quiet menace, that the guards practically stumbled over themselves to obey. They pulled the door closed behind them, leaving us alone.

My throat was dry. My heart hammered against my broken ribs. “Thorne. What are you doing here?”

“Someone had to,” he said, striding into the room as if he owned it. He stopped at the foot of my bed, his presence sucking all the oxygen from the air. “I read the news. ‘CEO Rena Morris in Freak Accident’. Tell me, when did you get so careless?”

“It’s touching, your concern,” I managed, my voice dripping with sarcasm I didn't entirely feel. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the golden number. It was a glitch in my reality. A paradox.

“This isn’t concern,” he sneered, though his eyes told a different story. They were dark, haunted. He looked terrified.

I blinked, thinking I must be wrong. But it was there. Behind the mask of cruel indifference was a raw, primal fear. The same look I imagined I had in my eyes just before my car hit the barrier.

“This is annoyance,” he continued, his voice sharp. “My greatest rival tries to take herself off the board permanently? It’s profoundly boring. Who am I supposed to fight with now, Troy?” He said my fiancé’s name like it was a foul taste in his mouth.

“I’m sorry to be such a disappointment to you,” I said, my voice gaining strength. “I’ll try for a more spectacular exit next time.”

“See that you do.” His eyes scanned the heart monitor, the chart hanging from the bed. “What was it? Did you have too much champagne at lunch? Texting your pretty fiancé while you were driving?”

“The police report says it was brake failure,” I said, the words tasting like a lie now.

Travis went very still. “Brake failure.” He said the two words as if they were a foreign language. “On your armored Mercedes? The one your head of security personally inspects every single morning? How very convenient.”

I stared at him, my mind racing. “What are you trying to say, Thorne?”

“I’m not trying to say anything.” He took a step closer. The golden ‘100’ seemed to burn brighter. “I’m stating a fact. Rena Morris does not suffer from ‘brake failure’. She cultivates enemies.”

“And you’re at the top of that list,” I shot back. It was our old rhythm. The familiar dance of insults and accusations that had defined our relationship for years.

“Am I?” he asked softly. He was beside the bed now, looming over me. I could smell the expensive, clean scent of his cologne. It was nothing like Troy’s. It was sharp, like cedar and winter air.

“You’ve spent the last five years trying to destroy me,” I accused, my voice thin.

“I have spent the last five years trying to acquire your company,” he corrected, his voice dangerously low. “There is a critical difference. I don’t break things I want, Morris. I own them.”

His gaze was so intense it felt like a physical touch. I could see the battle happening within him. The cruel words his mouth was programmed to say, and the terrified rage that lived in his eyes. And all the while, that impossible number floated above him, a testament to a truth I couldn’t comprehend.

“I am not something you can own.”

“No,” he conceded, his eyes flicking to the IV needle in the back of my hand. “Instead you’re this. A collection of broken bones and bruises, waiting for whoever cut your brakes to come back and finish the job.”

The bluntness of it hit me like a physical blow. He knew. He didn't have my strange vision, but he knew. He saw the truth of the situation with a clarity I was only just beginning to find.

“Get out,” I whispered. It was all I could think to say.

“No.”

“I will scream for security.”

“They’re a little preoccupied,” he said with a smirk that didn’t reach his eyes. “Now answer my question. Who was the last person to drive your car?”

“I don’t know. The valet at the restaurant. Troy, maybe. Why are you asking me all of this?” My voice cracked.

“Because I detest incompetence,” he said, his voice like gravel. “Both in my enemies and in my allies. And whoever tried to kill you was sloppy.”

He leaned down, placing his hands on the bed rail on either side of me. He was caging me in. The golden ‘100’ was directly in my line of sight, a blazing sun of loyalty. It made no sense. This hateful, ruthless man. My nemesis.

“This doesn’t concern you,” I insisted, trying to shrink away from the sheer force of his presence.

“Everything you do concerns me,” he bit back, and for a second, the mask slipped entirely. I saw pure, undiluted fury in his expression, but it wasn’t directed at me. It was for me.

He straightened up just as quickly, his face becoming a cold, unreadable mask once more.

“You’re a fool if you think this is over,” he said, his voice returning to its normal, mocking tone. “They left a job unfinished. They will be back.”

And with that, he turned on his heel. He didn’t say goodbye. He didn’t offer help. He just walked out of the room, leaving a hurricane of confusion and terror in his wake.

I was alone again, the rhythmic beeping of the monitor the only sound.

But the room no longer felt empty. It was filled with the ghost of his presence and the blinding, impossible image of that golden number.

One hundred. The only perfect score in the room. And it belonged to the one man I was supposed to hate more than anyone in the world.