Chapter 23: Do You Dislike Being With Me?

Vivian didn't waste another second.

She positioned herself beside the bed, steadied her breathing, and began.

Acupuncture was never simple work. With a condition as rare and specific as Rosie's, the margin for error was essentially zero, every needle placement demanded a precision that left no room for distraction, no room for anything except the task in front of her. Vivian's world narrowed to the sleeping child and the work of her hands, moving with the quiet certainty of someone who had done this so many times it had become its own language.

The minutes accumulated.

Somewhere past the first hour, a fine sheen of perspiration appeared along her hairline. She didn't notice it. She noticed only Rosie, the quality of her breathing, the subtle shifts of color in her face, the gradual, unmistakable bloom of warmth returning to her cheeks as the session progressed.

Finally, she withdrew the last needle.

Stepped back.

Exhaled.

Rosie's face, slack and deeply asleep, had more color in it than it had carried in weeks.

Vivian wiped her forehead with the back of her wrist, packed the needles away with brisk, practiced movements, and looked up with bright eyes. "Done."

She turned to Ethan. "I'll also put together an herbal soak prescription for you. Twice a week, ideally in the evening before sleep, it works best when the body is winding down. I'll send the formula through."

The words came out naturally, confidently, the way they always did when she was on familiar ground.

And then, half a second later, she caught herself.

She was standing in the bedroom of the most powerful family in New York, recommending a treatment protocol for their child, without a single framed certificate to her name. The diploma existed, technically, it simply hadn't been collected yet. She knew her knowledge. She trusted her hands. But there was no reason, from where Ethan Hartwell was standing, to extend the same trust to a stranger he had met less than forty-eight hours ago.

She cleared her throat. "If you'd like to have someone verify the prescription first, that's completely—"

Ethan reached over and took the needle case from her hand.

"No need," he said.

She looked at him.

"I trust you."

Three words. Flat, unadorned, carrying the same matter-of-fact weight he gave everything.

Vivian opened her mouth.

Closed it.

He had already turned and was moving toward the door, and she had to take a last, long look at the small sleeping face on the bed, cheeks flushed, chest rising and falling in the deep rhythm of genuinely restful sleep, before pulling the door gently shut behind her and following him down the corridor.

Downstairs, Victoria and the household staff had been waiting for the better part of two hours.

The moment Victoria saw them coming down the staircase, she was on her feet.

"Ethan, how is she? How is Rosie?"

Ethan glanced sideways at Vivian, then back to his mother. "Her color is better. She's sleeping."

The relief that moved across Victoria's face was immediate and unguarded. She turned to Vivian with an expression that was dangerously close to reverent, both hands clasping together. "Oh, thank goodness. Thank you, Miss Rong. Truly."

She recovered herself quickly and brightened. "Miss Rong, please stay for lunch. It's the least we can do—"

"She has other things to do."

Ethan spoke at the exact same moment Vivian opened her mouth.

Vivian glanced at him sideways.

She had, in fact, been about to decline. She had the words ready. She simply hadn't managed to produce them before he did.

She wasn't sure whether to be grateful or irritated.

Victoria's face fell a fraction, but she recovered graciously. "Of course, another time, then." She brightened again almost immediately. "Ethan, since you're heading out anyway why don't you give Miss Rong a lift?"

"No, please—" Vivian started, already shaking her head. "That's completely unnecessary, I can easily get a cab from here—"

"Of course," Ethan said.

Vivian looked at him.

He looked back at her with complete equanimity, as though her objection had been a pleasantry rather than a refusal.

Victoria beamed and walked them enthusiastically to the door, and Vivian found herself stepping out into the afternoon sunshine with Ethan Hartwell at her side and no clear memory of agreeing to any of this.

He stopped on the front steps.

"Wait here. I'll bring the car around."

"Mr. Hartwell." She turned to face him, keeping her tone even. "There's really no need. This isn't a private estate, I can flag a cab from the street without any trouble."

He had already half-turned to go.

Then he stopped.

Turned back.

Those dark eyes settled on her face with an attention that was somehow both completely steady and entirely too perceptive.

"Do you find it unpleasant," he said, "being in my company?"

The question landed in the quiet afternoon air between them.

Vivian blinked.

She hadn't said that. Hadn't said anything close to that. She had simply, reasonably, logically, suggested an alternative mode of transport.

Ethan's brow arched by a fraction, a barely-there lift that nonetheless managed to convey something dangerously close to amusement. The sharp lines of his face caught the afternoon light, and Vivian became abruptly, inconveniently aware of her own heartbeat.

Get it together, she told herself firmly. Immediately.

"Your expression suggests I've misread the situation," Ethan said, and there was something in his voice, quiet, low, just slightly warmer than his usual register, that made the words land differently than they should have.

He held up the car key.

"I'll get the car."

He walked away.

Vivian stood on the front steps of the Hartwell estate, one hand pressed flat against her sternum, staring at his retreating back.

Had he just

Was that

She shook her head firmly.

Illusion. Definitely an illusion.