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.
