Chapter 8

Fawn's POV

One corner of his mouth twitched. “I’m starting to notice.”

We let that sit there for a second, thickening the space between us. The air felt heavy with everything neither of us was saying. I shifted, suddenly aware again of the flimsy gown and how exposed my legs felt under the thin blanket and the backless gown.

“What happens when they decide I’m not going to drop dead mid-MRI?” I asked, if only to get us off the topic of what I felt like. “Do they keep me here? Ship me off to some rehab center with group therapy and inspirational posters?”

His expression shuttered. “No.”

“No?”

“You’ll come home,” he said. “To the penthouse. It’s secure and private, it’s where you lived before, so it makes sense.”

Home. The word scraped something raw inside me. Not Fawn’s home with her cheating husband and his mistress. Cassie’s home. But I doubted wifely duties were part of the deal. Though studying Blake… maybe that wasn’t entirely fortunate.

“With you,” I clarified, even though I already knew the answer.

“Yes.” He agreed before adding. “With me. You know we live in separate rooms in the penthouse. We’ll hire a private nurse for a while. Physiotherapy will come to the apartment. The media already know you’re alive; moving you to some facility only makes it harder to control who gets near you. Anyone you talk to could sell your story. We will get anyone seeing you to sign an NDA.”

I ran his words through my head. Near you. Not help you. Not support you. Control access. I did feel like a PR problem after all. It was very CEO of him.

“You’ve thought this through,” I said.

“I’ve always thought on my feet,” he replied. “And I’ve had a few hours in which my dead wife sat up in front of me and started cracking jokes about baked goods. I’m improvising around that.”

I snorted. “Yeah, I can see how that would throw off your five-year plan.”

His gaze held mine for a beat longer than was strictly comfortable. “If you don’t want to come back to the penthouse, say it.”

My first instinct was to say no. Every survival instinct I had was screaming that Blake’s world… Cassie’s world, was going to swallow me whole if I wasn’t careful.

But the practical part of me, the part that had spent the entire day filing away names and information like a woman taking notes before an exam, knew better.

I needed access to her life. Her things and her history. To figure out who Cassandra Huntington had been, so I could wear her skin properly without someone tugging at the seams and seeing the wrong person underneath.

And I needed distance from Richard. Physical and otherwise. If there was one place he wouldn’t expect me to be, it was on the arm of his favourite rival. Not like he realised I was alive—at least not yet.

“No,” I said finally, slower, choosing the word. “I didn’t say I don’t want to go.”

His eyebrows lifted slightly, like he’d been expecting a fight. “No?”

“I have nowhere else to go, remember?” I reminded him. “Apparently, I’m Cassandra Huntington. Not sure the Holiday Inn is prepared for that level of drama.”

Something like relief flickered across his features before he shut it down. “You still have choices,” he said. “We can work something out.”

“Oh, did you move your mistress in while I was here in a coma?” I asked.

“I don’t have a mistress, Cassie. You know me better than that.”

But there was a look in his eyes. Had Blake been involved with someone?

“Do I?” I wanted to tell him men lie, but then I thought of my parents' happy marriage. Why couldn't I have that?

He considered my short question, then inclined his head. “You should.”

Silence hummed between us again. The monitor beeped steadily at my side. A voice over the intercom called for a doctor to report to ICU. Somewhere down the hall, someone laughed too loudly and then tried to muffle it.

“Are you going to hover like this the whole time I’m there?” I asked, shifting my legs under the blanket, restless. “Because I should warn you, I don’t do well with constant supervision. I tend to misbehave out of spite.”

“I haven’t decided,” he said truthfully. “I don’t trust you.”

“At least you’re honest,” I said. It weirdly stung anyway. “You didn’t trust me before, either, did you?”

“No,” he said. No hesitation. “But that version of you was predictable in her own way. You wanted attention, control, constant proof you were the most beautiful person in any room. You were selfish. And most likely still are… I don’t believe for one minute you’ve changed all that much.”

I swallowed. That wasn’t about me, but hearing it still felt like being hit with shrapnel.

“You pulled the plug on me this morning,” I said, the words out before I could stop them. “Or tried to. Forgive me for not dying.”

His jaw jumped. Good. That one hit. I had enough wounds and now it was his turn.

Before he could respond, my stomach growled loudly enough to startle both of us. The sound made my cheeks heat from embarrassment. Fantastic. Resurrected from the dead, and my body still betrayed me with basic biology.

“See?” I said. “At least one part of me knows what it wants. Food. Preferably the non-hospital kind.”

“I’ll talk to someone,” he said. He stood, reaching for his jacket but not putting it on yet. “Is there anything you actually want, or should I tell them to surprise you?”

“Coffee,” I said immediately. “Real coffee. Not the brown water they’ve been passing off as a beverage. And something that doesn’t look like it’s already died once. A pastry or bacon, maybe both. I’m not fussy.”

His mouth did that almost-smile again. “You were always fussy,” he said. “You used to send back entire plates if the garnish offended you.”

“Well, maybe brain damage fixed that too,” I said. “Lucky you.”

He didn’t correct the term. Didn’t remind me they were calling it a miracle now, not damage. Just watched me for a second longer, like memorising the image, then headed for the door.

“Try not to terrorise anyone while I’m gone,” he said. “The nurses are already scared of you.”

“Please,” I scoffed. “They love me. I’m their favourite experiment. I have the pinholes to prove it.”

He shook his head and stepped out, the door clicking softly behind him.

The room felt different without him in it. I let my head fall back against the pillow, staring at the ceiling tiles.

I was exhausted, but underneath the bone-deep fatigue was a coil of something sharp and bright. Anticipation, but also fear. But most of all, rage. All tangled up.

I was going “home” with a man who thought I was his resurrected wife. I was living in the body of a woman I’d never met, with her face, her money, her enemies. And somewhere out there, Richard Jones was probably sitting in a boardroom or pouring himself a drink, smug and safe, convinced his biggest problem was rotting in the morgue.

Let him think that.

I flexed my fingers under the blanket, feeling the strength in my new muscles, the steady thud of my new heart.

Cassandra Huntington got a miracle.

Fawn Jones got murdered.

Between the two of them… I was going to make sure someone paid.

And if I had to smile, flirt, and play devoted wife in Blake Huntington’s world to do it?

Well.

Like I told the doctor.

I’d already risen from the dead.

I could pretend for a while.

Blake’s POV

I closed the door behind me and didn’t move for a second. Cassie was alive. I still hadn’t come to terms with this.

Coffee. I’d said. Food.

That had been the plan.

My hand slid into my pocket and closed around my phone. Instead of heading for the elevators, I pulled up the number I needed and hit dial before lifting it to my ear.

“Matt,” I said when he picked up on the second ring. “It’s Blake. Do me a favour.”

“Sure thing, boss. What do you need?”

“Coffee. Proper coffee. And food that doesn’t look like it died twice. Croissants, bacon, whatever you can get fresh. For the hospital. I’ll text you the floor and room number.”

A beat. “You’re still there?”

“Apparently.” I rubbed at the back of my neck, feeling the phantom imprint of her fingers there. “Fifteen minutes if you can manage it.”

“I’ll make it happen.”

I hung up before he could ask anything else and slid the phone back into my pocket.

Coffee and food: outsourced.

That left the other problem.