A deal to help.

Zoe’s POV

"She's not your girlfriend," M.J. snapped at Arman.

I had to pull him back, instinctively wedging myself between Arman and M.J. Arman's grip tightened just before M.J. put his hand on my arm in an attempt to pull me away.

"Let go of her!" Arman snarled, his voice sharp and dangerous. He looked ready to fight. Tension radiated through the room, and anger leaked out of both men.

"Let's back this up a little bit," I tried again, keeping my voice steady. "M.J., can we postpone my shoot?"

M.J. looked livid but eventually nodded. Near the bed, Bri just stayed still, looking like her entire world had ended.

"Arman, we're going to need you to calm down. Getting angry isn't good for your health at the moment," I said calmly. It was as if I were back in the hospital—I was the doctor again, and he was my patient.

Arman nodded, his expression softening into a shy, boyish look. "I'm hungry."

The doctor stepped in smoothly. "You should be; you haven't eaten real food in a while." He turned to Bri. "Why don't you go get him something? Something warm and soft, easy to swallow and digest. Maybe soup or porridge—minimal spice." He ordered it in the form of advice, just like we doctors always do. Then he turned to Arman. "Can I see your girlfriend in my office for a minute? She'll be back before you know it."

Arman gave me a desperate look, clearly not wanting to let go, but he finally did. M.J. followed us out of the ward, which I was fine with; I had no assurance M.J. wouldn't say something to trigger the poor guy if left alone with him.

"I must confess that I suspected this outcome, but I wanted to wait and see how it would play out when he woke up," the doctor began once we were in the hallway.

M.J. lifted a hand. "We really don't care what is or is not up with his brain. I don't give a flying fuck. What's the assurance that the guy isn't just acting to mess with us? It's something he's capable of." M.J. was adamantly refusing to show any pity. I understood that he was tense after canceling an interview he had fought tooth and nail to secure for me.

"If you go through the results of his MRI, you'll see that the wound on his head went way beyond the surface," the doctor explained patiently.

"What do you advise we do?" I asked professionally. There was no time to waste.

"I take it that you're not his girlfriend, as he thinks you are?" the doctor asked.

I nodded. "Yes. But I was the last person he was with before the accident, and we'd fought. I don't see why he came to this conclusion," I rasped.

"The fact that you've been coming here every day since you heard about his accident is enough for anyone to draw that conclusion, Zoe!" M.J. interjected.

The doctor nodded. "It's also possible that it's a psychological reaction. Many people hold on to a false memory just to escape hurt and trauma."

"Then we'll clear this false memory so he can get on with his life," M.J. bristled.

"I would advise that we indulge him a little." The doctor paused, and I raised a brow, urging him to continue. "The reality he has created for himself is most likely a coping mechanism; it would be brutal to forcefully launch him out of it. It might cause more damage than we can bear to manage."

I shook my head. "You're not a psychiatrist." He had no qualification to make that final conclusion.

"No, I'm not, but this isn't the first time I’m dealing with something like this," the doctor argued, lowering his voice. "I'm sure you understand."

I fought the urge to break something, because he was right, and I was just in denial. "I can't pretend to be Arman's girlfriend. It's too much."

"Let me tell you what you can do," M.J. interrupted. "You can walk out of this hospital right now and not look back. Let them deal with their patient." M.J. held my hand firmly. "You do not owe anyone anything."

I took a deep breath. M.J. was right; I could turn my back on Arman right now. No one was indispensable. With or without me, they would find a solution to his predicament. The doctor gave me a hopeful look.

"You swore an oath," he tried.

I fought the urge to bite my nails. *Dear Lord, please help me not to regret this,* I pleaded under my breath.

"M.J., let's help him." M.J. looked like he wanted to chop off my head. "Think about it like this: if this gets out to the general public, it could be bad for my image. I left that venue with him; this cannot be good for me. So, we're not doing this for him—we're doing it for me. And boy, when Arman comes back to his senses, both he and his agency are going to owe us big time." I took a deep breath, realizing I had been ranting without catching my breath.

M.J. looked more resigned than in agreement. "Deal."