Rose

Just before I start typing a message to my sister—I love you, here’s what’s happening—I pause.

My thumbs hover over the screen, but my eyes lift. I need to check on him. I have to. I need to see if he’s any better. If the tremors have stopped. If he’s still fighting against whatever invisible enemy is clawing at him.

His fingers twitch against the armrest, knuckles whitening, muscles rigid. His chest rises too quickly, like each breath is a battle. I wait, heart in my throat. And then—slowly—his body loosens. His shoulders drop, no longer locked in that unforgiving frame. The shaking in his hands ebbs, fading little by little, until his fingers finally fall still.

A heavy breath escapes his lips. His eyes remain closed for a second longer, as if clinging to the darkness. Then they snap open—slightly unfocused, hazy, like he’s just surfaced from a nightmare. His jaw tightens. Frustration flickers across his face.

“I’m fine,” he mutters. His voice is rough, raw, a whisper dragged over broken glass. A lie. Barely holding itself together.

I shift my weight from foot to foot, restless. The air in here feels too close, too suffocating. I can’t sit still. Not when he looks like this. Not when silence stretches out between us, thick and unyielding.

Then, suddenly, his gaze shifts. It cuts past me. Past everything. Locks onto something I hadn’t even noticed. A television screen, muted but glowing. His face drains of colour.

“Stupid alarm!”

My stomach knots. My voice comes out a breath. “What alarm?”

“Jeffery is coming up.” His words are clipped, urgent.

Panic spikes through me. “What? I thought he was out—”

“The alarm.” His tone sharpens, silencing me. “No time for questions. Hide in the closet.”

I freeze. “There’s no way this is happening.”

“Hide inside the closet, for heaven’s sake!” His voice cracks like a whip, forceful enough to make my chest jolt.

I don’t argue again. I can’t. Not with that tone. My feet move before I can think, carrying me toward the door. The moment I slip inside, it clicks shut behind me.

Darkness. Silence. Then the smell—fabric, detergent, something faintly musky. The walk-in closet is massive, almost absurdly so. Racks tower above me, endless rows of clothes pressing in. I duck low, disappearing into a sea of sweatpants. Dozens of them. Every shade, every fabric, like someone obsessed over loungewear. It’s ridiculous, hiding in a jungle of sweatpants, but I crouch anyway, pressing myself into the farthest corner, every nerve straining.

Footsteps thud outside. Voices follow.

“We were all scared, Kendrick. What happened?”

“Nothing. I’m fine. Took the meds just in time.”

I hold my breath.

What if Jeffery doesn’t leave? What if Kendrick’s family shows up?

“I want to be left alone,” Kendrick snaps. His voice doesn’t sound like him—it’s sharper, colder, like a blade drawn.

“Your mum is on her way,” Jeffery says carefully. “And so is Liam. And Mr George.”

Heat prickles across my skin. My stomach twists hard. Keisha is going to be so disappointed.

“I will not be disturbed,” Kendrick’s voice cuts through the air, sharp enough to sting. “I will not be entertaining—”

“But sir—”

“We do not pay you to question my decisions. Leave. Now.”

A silence follows, taut as wire. Then—

A door clicks shut.

My lungs ache. I barely let myself exhale.

“You can come out.”

I freeze.

A pause. Then, drier, sharper this time.

“I said you can come out. I presume you’re still alive?”

Slowly, carefully, I weave out of the racks, pushing through fabric like I’m forcing my way out of a dense forest.

“Can’t they barge in?” My voice sounds too small, even to me.

“No.”

“Are there cameras? What if they saw me come in? What if they hear through the walls? What if—”

“Enough with the questions.” His tone slams the door shut again. Cold. Final. “Once they leave, you can go. And don’t worry—this is the last you’ll hear from me.”

The last? Just like that? His voice is ice, and I don’t understand why. A wall has gone up between us, higher than before.

“Is this about the ring?”

No answer. He turns the wheelchair sharply, heading toward what looks like a bathroom.

Instinct overrides thought. I rush forward, hands reaching for the back of his chair to help.

“Stop.” The word lashes out the second my fingers touch it.

I recoil. My voice comes out small. “I want to go now.”

“Suit yourself.” He gestures toward the hidden door.

Relief should come. No more sneaking. No more suffocating silence. But it doesn’t. Instead, unease gnaws at me, deep and restless.

Is it the ring? The seizures? The shame?

“I’m sorry I brought up the ring.”

“This has nothing to do with the ring.”

“Then what is it?”

His jaw tightens. His voice breaks open. “You saw me. Shaking like a fish out of water, waiting to be tossed back in. And you think this is about a ring?”

“I’m sorry you had to go through that,” I whisper.

His shoulders slump. He drags a hand down his face, exhaling shakily. “I feel so ashamed.” The words scrape out of him, barely more than a whisper.

I kneel in front of him, lowering myself to his level. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” I say gently. “If anything, it means you survived.”

He doesn’t look at me right away. His jaw clenches, but his eyes flicker to mine. He studies me, cautious. Testing. “How did you know? That I was having a PTE episode?”

“I’m a medical student.”

A long breath leaves him. He turns toward the screen where Jeffery had appeared earlier. “A doctor by day, a romance reader by night.”

I blink. “How do you know?”

“I picked up the book you dropped the other night.” A pause. His gaze drifts to my hand. “I didn’t know you were married. I wouldn’t have… bothered you.”

“I’m not married.”

“The tanzanite on your finger says otherwise.”

“It’s complicated.”

His eyes narrow. “What are you doing here?”

“Keisha is sick.”

A flicker of something—understanding? amusement?—crosses his face. “I suspected.”

“What do you mean?”

His voice hardens. “What are you doing here, Rose Montel?”

The name lands like a blow. My throat tightens. “I’m standing in for my sister.”

“You’re married to a rich man.” He gestures toward my hand. “Why are you here with Keisha? Someone who can afford that”—his eyes flick to my ring—“could change your lives.”

“It’s complicated.”

A beat. I expect him to press. To demand answers. But instead, his next words cut deeper.

“You can go. Jeffery has left.”

“What?”

I frown. “Why would they leave you alone, especially after what just happened?”

His expression is unreadable. Blank. “What happened?” He’s pretending.

“I have classes tomorrow.”

“And?”

“I’ll be in the library the day after. Same time.”

One brow lifts. “Why do I need this information?”

I hesitate. “Because I want to know how you’re doing.”

Something flickers across his face—something I can’t quite name. But he doesn’t push further. Instead, he nods toward the hidden door.

I press my hand against the panel as he instructed, and it opens.

“There are no cameras on this side,” he says, just before the walls slide back into place behind me.