Elise Hartman.
A steady, rhythmic beeping pulls me from the dark. It’s the first thing I register. The second is the smell. Antiseptic and bleach, so clean it burns my nose.
My eyelids feel heavy, glued shut. I force them open. The world is a blur of sterile white. A ceiling. A light fixture. I’m in a bed, the sheets crisp and stiff.
“Elise? Darling, you’re awake.”
Julian’s face swims into view above me. His hair is artfully messy, his eyes shadowed with what looks like exhaustion. He looks completely wrecked. A perfect picture of a worried boyfriend.
“Thank god,” he breathes, his voice thick. He rushes to my side, his hand finding mine, his touch cool. “I was so scared. I thought I lost you.”
His words are a comforting balm, but my eyes are fixed on something else. Something impossible.
Floating just above his head, shimmering in the dull light of the room, is a number. A glowing, crimson ‘9’.
I blink hard, trying to clear the fog from my brain. It must be a side effect of whatever drugs they have me on. A hallucination. But it stays, stark and unwavering. A single, bloody digit.
“Julian… what happened?” My voice is a dry rasp, a stranger’s voice.
“There was a crash,” he says, his thumb stroking the back of my hand. “A drunk driver, the police said. He ran a red light and slammed right into us. But you’re safe now. That’s all that matters.”
He leans in, pressing a soft kiss to my forehead. His concern feels like a heavy blanket. His story is perfect. His actions are perfect. But that crimson ‘9’ burns in my vision, a tiny signal of something terribly wrong.
My gaze drifts past his shoulder, towards the open doorway of the private room. A man stands there, silent and still. He’s tall, his shoulders broad in a dark, impeccably tailored suit that looks out of place in a hospital. Kaelen Sterling.
His face is a stoic mask, no mocking smile, no taunting glint in his eyes. Just an intense, unreadable focus. On me.
And above his head, another number blazes. This one is not crimson. It’s a brilliant, shining gold. A ‘90’.
My mind stutters to a halt. Ninety? My fiercest rival? The man who toasted to my company’s destruction not a day ago? It makes no sense. A ‘9’ for my loving boyfriend and a ‘90’ for my sworn enemy.
The door swings open wider, and a man in a crisp white coat enters, a tablet in his hand. “Ms. Hartman. It’s good to see you with us. I’m Doctor Chen.”
He offers a polite, professional smile. And just like the others, a number materializes above his head. A neutral, slate-gray ‘30’.
“How are you feeling? Any significant pain anywhere?” he asks, his eyes flicking to the monitors beside my bed.
“My head,” I manage to say. “It hurts.”
“She needs the absolute best care, doctor,” Julian interjects, his voice firm. “Whatever the cost.”
The crimson ‘9’ doesn’t move. Not by a point.
Doctor Chen nods. “Of course. You have a rather serious concussion, Ms. Hartman, but your brain scans are clear. All things considered, you were very fortunate.”
A thought, cold and alien, slices through my confusion. An experiment. A test.
I turn my head slightly on the pillow to look at the doctor. I summon what little strength I have and push genuine warmth into my voice. “Thank you, doctor. For taking care of me.”
He stops typing on his tablet and meets my gaze, his professional smile softening into something warmer, more human. “You’re very welcome, Ms. Hartman. Your only job now is to rest.”
I watch, holding my breath. The gray ‘30’ above his head flickers. It dissolves and reforms into a ‘35’.
My blood turns to ice.
It’s real. All of it.
My gaze snaps back to Kaelen, still motionless in the doorway. His golden ‘90’ is a fixed point in my chaotic new reality. Then I look at Julian. He’s still holding my hand, whispering meaningless comforts, playing his part to perfection.
The horrifying truth dawns on me, sharp and cruel. The numbers show how people feel about me. Favorability. Affection. Loyalty.
The doctor’s score went up with a simple act of kindness. Kaelen Sterling, for some reason I cannot begin to fathom, holds me in impossibly high regard.
And Julian. My Julian. The man who is supposed to love me more than anyone. His score is a whisper. A number that screams apathy. Or worse. So much worse.
A chill snakes down my spine, a cold dread that has nothing to do with my injuries. The accident. The blinding headlights coming straight for my door. Julian, looking up from his phone a second too late.
His face is a mask of pure concern, but his number is the truth. And the chasm between the two is a dark, terrifying abyss.
Kaelen takes a single, silent step into the room, his eyes never leaving mine, his impossible number a silent enigma.
I realize with sickening clarity that the life I thought was a lie was nothing compared to the man holding my hand.
