Chapter 74

Lila’s POV

“Drew.” My voice was soft and calm, barely more than a whisper.

He didn’t move at first. His head was still buried in his hands, shoulders rising and falling with a heaviness that made something in my chest ache. Slowly, I reached out, my fingers trembling, and tapped him lightly on the arm. “Drew… are you alright?”

When he finally lifted his head, the sight of him nearly killed me. His eyes were bloodshot, rimmed red with exhaustion and something rawer, anger and grief, I couldn’t tell. He held my gaze for a moment, and then gave a small, tight nod.

“I’m fine,” he rasped, though the way his jaw clenched made it clear that he was anything but.

And then his eyes dropped lower. To my hand.

His expression hardened instantly. His nostrils flared, his lips pressed into a thin line, and I followed his gaze only to realize what he was staring at, my bruises. Ugly bruises were already forming across my skin where Max’s fingers had dug in.

Drew’s entire body stiffened. His jaw ticked like he was grinding his teeth so hard he might shatter them. For a moment, I thought he was going to explode all over again, storm out the door and hunt Max down himself. Instead, he muttered under his breath, his voice like steel.

“Wait here.”

He pushed to his feet, his tall frame cutting across the room with sharp, efficient strides. I watched him disappear into another part of the penthouse, my stomach twisting.

When he returned, he carried a small first aid kit in one hand. He didn’t say anything, he just sat back down beside me, closer this time, and opened the box.

“I can do it myself,” I whispered, suddenly self conscious.

“No.” The word was sharp and absolute. His hands, large, steady and terrifyingly capable took my wrist before I could protest. He unscrewed a small tube of ointment, squeezed a bit onto his fingertips, and began to apply it gently to the bruised skin.

I flinched at the first touch. His head snapped up immediately, his eyes flashing with something dangerous. He looked at me like my pain was a personal offense, like he couldn’t stand the thought of me hurting under his watch.

“It’s okay,” I whispered quickly. “I’m fine.”

He didn’t answer. His face had hardened into that same impenetrable mask, but beneath it I could see the cracks. His fury was barely leashed, simmering just under the surface, but his touch… his touch was careful. Almost tender.

Every time I winced, his jaw tightened more. Every sharp inhale from me seemed to slice through him like a knife.

I couldn’t breathe right. Not because of the sting of the ointment, but because of what it meant. This man who had spent weeks keeping me at arm’s length was now sitting here, his hands steady on mine, as if he couldn’t bear to let anyone else touch me.

And I didn’t know what to make of it.

I didn’t know what it meant that I was here again, in his house, for the third time. That after everything, the rejection, the coldness and the distance, he was still the one I ended up with, tending to wounds someone else gave me.

When he was done, he capped the tube with a snap and slid it back into the kit. For a moment he didn’t move, his thumb lingering against the inside of my wrist, tracing the faintest line against my skin. His eyes stayed locked on the bruises, as if staring hard enough might erase them.

Then he let go. Too abruptly, like he had realized what he was doing.

“Are you hungry?” His voice was rough, strained, as though he had to drag the words out.

“No,” I said quickly, shaking my head. “I don’t want to be a burden. You don’t have to”

“You haven’t eaten.” His tone was sharp again, not leaving room for argument. “And you need to eat something. I’ll make something light.”

“Drew…”

“That wasn’t a question.”

I closed my mouth, staring at him, half irritated and half… something else. Something that made my chest tight.

He stood, collected himself, and crossed the room again, this time toward the kitchen. His movements were swift, efficient, almost mechanical, but there was something almost grounding about watching him move in his own space. Like every stride, every reach for a pan, was part of a world that was entirely his.

“Go,” he said suddenly, glancing over his shoulder at me. “Go and freshen up. There’s a guest room down the hall, third door on the right. The bathroom's stocked up too.”

I hesitated.

“Go,” he repeated, softer this time, but no less firm.

So I went.

The guest room he had pointed to wasn’t the one I had stayed in before. This one was lighter and smaller with pale walls, soft bedding, and floor to ceiling windows that stretched open to the glittering city skyline. It felt lived in, somehow more welcoming, though still pristine in that way only Drew Sinclair’s spaces could be.

I stepped into the bathroom, splashed water on my face, let the steam clear some of the tension from my skin. For a moment, I stared at myself in the mirror, at the girl who had been cornered by Max and then whisked away into Drew’s world like she didn’t belong anywhere else.

By the time I stepped out, the smell hit me first. Warm, familiar and comforting smell.

Mac and cheese.

I stopped in the doorway, blinking at the sight of Drew sliding a dish onto the table in the dining area. He wasn’t looking at me, just moving with quiet precision as he placed utensils beside the plate, poured a glass of water, then stepped back.

He couldn’t possibly know. He couldn’t possibly know that this had always been my comfort food, the one dish I craved when the world felt too heavy. But here it was, waiting for me.

My throat tightened.

He glanced up briefly, catching my gaze. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes lingered on me a moment too long before he stepped back.

“Eat,” he said quietly. “You’ll feel better.”

And with that, he turned away.

I blinked. “Aren’t you eating?”

“I’m retiring.” He cut me off gently, already heading toward the hall that led to his own bedroom. “Once you’re done, get some rest. We’ll talk in the morning.”

I stood frozen, the words echoing in my chest long after he disappeared down the hall.

Retiring. Like this was just another ordinary night in his perfectly controlled life. Like I hadn’t just had my world cracked open hours ago.

I sat down slowly, the steam from the food curling into the air between us even though he wasn’t there anymore. Each bite tasted both too heavy and too comforting, like my body didn’t know if it wanted to devour it or push it away.

When the plate was empty, I carried myself back to the guest room he had prepared for me, every step echoing in the vast silence of his penthouse.

I slid under the covers, staring at the ceiling. I told myself I should feel safe. After all, I was in Drew’s fortress of glass and steel, guarded by his walls, his commands and his fury.

But I didn’t feel safe. Not completely.

Because Drew Sinclair was just as dangerous in his own way.

And the weight of him, his presence, his silence and his anger was everywhere.

I was almost drifting when I heard it.

Low and muffled at first, but growing clearer the longer I listened.

It was Drew’s voice.

Through the wall, through the silence of the penthouse, his voice carried on. Low, rough and laced with venom.

I couldn’t make out every word, but I caught enough. I heard my name and Max’s name in between. His voice carried clipped, furious commands of a man who refused to let anything slip through his fingers again.

I lay there, my heart hammering, staring into the darkness.

Drew wasn’t sleeping. He wasn’t resting and he wasn’t fine. He was still fighting for me and I didn't know why.

And that scared me. Not the fact that Max was out there, but rather the fact that Drew Sinclair cared enough to lose sleep over me.