What The Numbers Betray

Ivy

The beeping is the first thing I notice. A steady, insistent rhythm that drills into my skull. The second is the smell. Antiseptic and something else, something stale. I force my eyelids open. They feel like they’re lined with sand.

White. Everything is white. The ceiling, the sheets pulled up to my chin. My head throbs in time with the beeping.

"Ivy? Oh, my God, you're awake."

A voice cuts through the fog. Julian. His face swims into view, a mask of worried perfection. His blonde hair is perfectly styled, not a strand out of place. How does he manage that? Even in a hospital.

"Julian?" My voice is a dry rasp.

"I'm here, my love. I'm right here." He takes my hand, his grip warm and possessive. He brings it to his lips, kissing my knuckles. "I was so scared. The doctors… they weren't sure."

I try to sit up, but a lance of pain shoots through my entire body. I fall back against the pillows with a gasp.

"Easy, easy," he coos, his hand stroking my forehead. "Don't try to move. You were in a terrible accident."

An accident. Flashes of light. The scream of tires. Blinding headlights. I flinch, the memory sharp and terrifying. "The truck..."

"It came out of nowhere," Julian says, his voice soft and soothing. "A semi. Lost its brakes on the hill, they think. You're so, so lucky, Ivy."

I close my eyes, trying to piece it together. It feels wrong. Hazy. As I look back at him, something shifts in my vision. A flicker. Above his perfectly coiffed hair, a faint shape materializes. It’s a number. A glowing, ethereal number '5'.

I blink hard. Once. Twice. The '5' remains, hovering in the air like a phantom brand.

"What is that?" I whisper, my throat tight.

Julian follows my gaze up to the ceiling. "What, baby? The water stain? Don't worry about that. This place is a dump, but it has the best neurosurgeons. I insisted."

He isn't seeing it. It’s just for me. A hallucination. It has to be. A concussion, the painkillers they must have me on. I try to shake my head, a small, painful gesture. "No, it's... nothing. I'm just… foggy."

"Of course, you are," he says, his thumb tracing circles on my cheek. It's a gesture that used to comfort me. Now it just feels… practiced. "You have a major concussion. A few broken ribs. But you're going to be fine. I'm going to make sure of it. I'll take care of everything."

He leans in to kiss me, but I turn my head slightly so his lips land on my cheek. The glowing '5' bobs with his movement. It’s a pathetic little number. Small. Insignificant. It doesn't match the grand, sweeping pronouncements of his love.

"And don't you worry about the company," he continues, pulling back. "I've been fielding calls all day. Lena is handling the day-to-day, but I've told everyone that all major decisions have to wait for your sign-off. I won't let anyone take advantage."

Vance Industries. My company. The thought of it sends a jolt of anxiety through me. I built it from nothing. It’s my life. "I need my phone."

"No, no, no," Julian says, shaking his head with a patronizing smile. "No screens. Doctor's orders. You need to rest that brilliant brain of yours. Let me be your gatekeeper for a while. Just focus on getting better. For me."

His smile is dazzling. It’s the smile that charmed investors, the smile that won over my board, the smile that made me fall for him. But looking at it now, with that '5' floating above him, it looks like a costume. A beautiful, empty mask. The number even seems to flicker, dipping for a split second. A '4'? No, it’s back to a '5'.

I must be losing my mind.

A sharp knock on the door makes us both jump. A nurse pokes her head in. "Sorry to interrupt. You have another visitor, Ms. Vance."

Julian's smile tightens. "She's not taking visitors. She just woke up. Can't you see she needs to rest?" He directs his annoyance at the nurse, a flash of something hard in his eyes before it’s gone.

"He was very insistent," the nurse says, looking flustered. "He said it was important."

"I'm fine," I manage to say, my curiosity piqued. Who else would be here? My best friend and COO, Lena, would have called first.

Julian sighs, turning back to me and patting my hand. "Alright, my love. Five minutes. Then I'm kicking them out myself." He gives the nurse a curt nod.

The door opens wider, and my breath catches in my throat.

It's Rhys Blackwood.

He steps into the room and the entire atmosphere changes. The air crackles. Rhys is the CEO of Blackwood Dynamics, our fiercest competitor. The man is a shark in a tailored suit, and he’s standing in my hospital room. He looks out of place, a monolith of dark grey wool and starched white cotton against the sterile backdrop. His dark hair is perfectly cut, his jaw set. He doesn’t offer a smile. He never does.

"Vance," he says. His voice is a low baritone, clipped and formal. It’s the voice he uses in boardrooms right before he financially eviscerates someone.

"Blackwood," I reply, my own voice stronger now, fueled by adrenaline. "To what do I owe the pleasure? Come to see if your biggest problem has been permanently removed?"

Julian stands up, moving to position himself between me and Rhys. A protective gesture that feels more like a claim. "I think you should leave. This is hardly the time."

Rhys’s cool grey eyes flick from Julian to me, dismissing him entirely. It’s as if Julian is nothing more than a piece of furniture. "I was sorry to hear about the accident." It’s not an apology. It's a statement of fact.

"I'm sure you were," I say, my head pounding. I try to sit up a little straighter, wincing at the pull in my ribs. "The market must be thrilled."

"The market is volatile without you," he counters, taking a step closer to the bed. "Predictability is profitable. You're predictable."

"Is that a compliment?"

"It's an observation," he says.

I stare at him, this man I’ve spent the last five years battling. We've poached each other's employees, torpedoed each other's deals, and publicly insulted each other's innovations. He is ruthless, brilliant, and the only person in the industry I consider a true equal. And he is here.

Then I see it.

It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust, because it’s so much brighter than Julian’s sad little '5'. Floating above Rhys Blackwood’s head, crisp and unwavering, is the number '95'.

It's so vivid it almost hums with energy. A brilliant, powerful number that seems to cast its own light.

I stare, mesmerized. My brain short-circuits. It makes no sense. None.

Julian, my loving boyfriend, the man holding my hand, the man whispering about our future together, has a '5'.

Rhys Blackwood, my corporate nemesis, the man who would probably dance on my company’s grave if given the chance, has a '95'.

"Are you alright, Vance?" Rhys's voice cuts through my shock. There's a flicker of something in his eyes. Not pity. Something else. Concern? "You're pale."

"She needs to rest," Julian insists, his voice rising. He turns to Rhys. "Your five minutes are up. Get out."

Rhys doesn't even look at him. His gaze is locked on mine. It’s intense, searching. Like he’s trying to solve a puzzle. He knows something is wrong, more than just the accident.

"The driver," Rhys says, his voice dropping slightly, meant only for me. "The police report says he was apprehended. Claimed his brakes failed."

"That's what they told me," I say, my eyes darting from the '95' above Rhys's head to the '5' above Julian's. The contrast is nauseating. A chasm of impossibility.

"Brakes fail," Rhys says slowly, deliberately. "But they rarely fail on a brand new truck from a fleet with a perfect maintenance record."

My blood runs cold.

"What are you implying?" Julian sputters, his face flushing with anger. "Are you trying to upset her? Who the hell do you think you are, coming in here with your conspiracy theories?" The number '5' above his head wavers again. It dips to a '4'. Just for a second. Then it’s back.

Rhys finally turns his head to look at Julian. A slow, deliberate movement. The look in his eyes is pure ice. "And who are you?"

The dismissal is so absolute, so profound, that Julian is momentarily speechless.

Rhys turns back to me. "I'll leave you to rest. Recover quickly, Vance. The field is boring without you."

He gives a single, sharp nod, turns, and walks out of the room. He doesn't say another word. The door clicks shut behind him, leaving a silence that feels heavier than before. The ghost of his '95' seems to still hang in the air.

Julian lets out an indignant huff. "The nerve of that guy. Unbelievable. He probably caused the accident himself." He rushes back to my side, grabbing my hand again. "Don't listen to him, Ivy. He's just trying to get in your head. You know how he is."

I look at him. At his handsome, concerned face. His grip on my hand is tight, almost painful. I look up at the number floating above him.

'5'.

It’s not a hallucination.

It's a warning.

My doting boyfriend, who can’t wait for me to get better. A '5'. My sworn enemy, who just hinted my accident was no accident. A '95'.

The sterile white room suddenly feels like a cage. Julian's sweet nothings sound like static. The seed of doubt planted by the impossible numbers begins to sprout, its roots twisting around my heart, cold and terrifying. Everything I thought I knew just shattered.