8

Anya’s pov

The pressure of his hand against my windpipe was cold and trembling, a terrifying contrast to the heat radiating from his feverish skin. Kai wasn't looking at me—he was looking through me, his pupils blown wide, trapped in a jagged memory I didn't understand.

"Kai, stop! It’s me. It’s Anya!" I wheezed, my fingers clawing at his wrist.

The sound of my name seemed to act like a physical shock. His focus shifted, the glassy haze in his eyes fracturing until the stormy grey returned, sharp and lethal. He blinked, the recognition hitting him like a blow to the gut. He let go so abruptly I slumped against the door, gasping for air and clutching my throat.

He recoiled, stumbling back until he hit the chaise lounge, his chest heaving. "What... what are you doing in here?" he rasped, his voice thick with the remnants of the night terror. He looked down at his good hand as if it belonged to a stranger, then at the heavy, white bandage on his left.

"I heard you screaming," I managed to say, my voice cracking. I looked over at the bedside table, my heart still hammering. The photograph was gone—he must have swept it into the drawer or under the pillow in his struggle. My mind was racing. Why did he have a photo of my mother? Why did he think I was her?

Kai followed my gaze, his expression hardening into a mask of pure iron. The vulnerability was gone, replaced by a defensive wall so high it was impenetrable. "I don't scream. Get out."

"You were having a seizure or a panic attack, Kai. You were hitting your hand against the frame. You’re going to ruin the surgery," I said, steping forward, the journalist in me momentarily eclipsed by a frantic, unwanted Need to help.

"I said get out!" He lunged for the amber glass on the table, his hand shaking so violently the liquid splashed over the wood. "I don't need a nurse, and I certainly don't need a Sharma witnessing my 'weakness' for her next column. If I catch you in this room again after midnight, I’ll tell Ethan you tried to solicit me. See how your Foundation likes that headline."

The cruelty of the threat was a cold bucket of water over my head. The sympathy I’d felt seconds ago vanished, replaced by the familiar, comforting burn of hatred. "Fine. Rot in here, then. But if you break that hand again, the tour is over, and I don't get paid. So for the love of God, stay on the furniture."

I turned and walked out, the electronic lock clicking behind me.

The Next Day: 8:00 AM

The bus had stopped. The vibration of the road had been replaced by the distant, rhythmic thud-thud-thud of a crew setting up a stage. We were in a stadium parking lot, somewhere in the Midwest, surrounded by a sea of asphalt and security fences.

I didn't have time to process the night before. Ben, the road manager, had me moving the moment I stepped out of my bunk. My clipboard was a list of demands: inventory the green room, ensure the alkaline water was exactly 18°C, and—the task I dreaded most—supervise the delivery of the specialized equipment for Kai’s first "appearance."

The atmosphere on the bus was stifling. Ethan was nowhere to be seen, likely taking meetings with local promoters to spin the "accident" narrative. That left me alone with the crew, who treated me with the kind of suspicion usually reserved for a federal agent.

"He's ready for his exercises," a soft voice said behind me.

I turned to see a woman standing in the galley. She was petite, with a calm, serene face and blonde hair pulled into a sensible ponytail. She held a medical bag and a small bowl of warm paraffin wax.

"I'm Lila," she said, offering a small, sympathetic smile. "The physiotherapist. You must be Anya. Ethan told me you'd be coordinating his schedule."

"That’s me," I said, trying to sound professional while my throat still felt bruised from Kai’s grip. "He’s in the back suite. He had... a rough night."

Lila’s smile faltered, a flash of deep, genuine concern crossing her eyes. "He always does. The phantom pain is worse than the actual injury. He needs his hand worked on before the press arrives for the walk-through."

She headed toward the back, and I followed, clipboard in hand. I told myself I was just doing my job, but the image of the photograph was still burned into my mind. I needed to see more. I needed to know who Kai Rhodes really was when the lights were off.

When we entered the suite, the curtains were still drawn. Kai was sitting up, dressed in a black silk shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal his powerful forearms. He didn't look at me, but I saw his jaw tighten as I stepped into the room.

"Sit," Lila said firmly, gesturing to the chair.

Kai obeyed, placing his bandaged hand on the table. As Lila began to carefully unwind the gauze, I stood in the corner, recording notes on the "recovery process" for the biography.

The bandage fell away, and I had to swallow a gasp.

His hand was a roadmap of surgical scars—angry, red lines that crisscrossed his palm and wrist. It looked fragile, almost skeletal. Lila took his hand in hers, her fingers moving with a gentle, practiced intimacy. She began to rub a specialized oil into the scars, her touch lingering on his skin.

"Does this hurt?" she whispered.

"Everything hurts, Lila," Kai muttered, his eyes closing. He leaned his head back, his throat exposed, and for a second, the tension in his body seemed to melt under her touch.

I felt a sudden, sharp prick of something I refused to call jealousy. It was irritation. Professional irritation. Lila was the only person he allowed to touch him, the only one who could bridge the gap of his fury.

"You have to do the exercises, Kai," Lila murmured, her face inches from his. "If you don't keep the tendons moving, the scar tissue will lock the joints. You'll never play again."

Kai’s eyes snapped open. He looked at his hand—the hand that had once been capable of breathtaking speed and tried to curl his fingers.

They didn't move. They just trembled, a pathetic, useless twitch.

A low, guttural sound of frustration escaped his throat. He looked up, his gaze catching mine in the corner. He saw me watching his failure. He saw the "Critic" witnessing his most profound humiliation.

"Get out," he said, his voice trembling with a new kind of rage.

"Kai, she's just doing the documentation…" Lila started.

"I said OUT!" He swept his good hand across the table, sending the bowl of wax flying. It shattered against the wall, the hot liquid splattering everywhere.

I didn't wait. I turned to leave, but as I reached the door, my eyes landed on the open drawer of his bedside table.

There, tucked under a bottle of heavy-duty painkillers, was the corner of the photograph. But next to it was something else—a small, leather-bound journal with the initials A.S. embossed in gold on the cover.

My mother’s initials.

I froze. My heart stopped. That journal had been missing since the day she died.

I reached for it, my fingers inches from the leather, when a heavy hand slammed the drawer shut, nearly pinning my fingers.

I looked up into Ethan Cole’s cold, unblinking eyes. He had appeared out of nowhere, his presence as silent as a shadow.

"The PA stays in the kitchen, Anya," he whispered, his voice a lethal warning. "And the Critic stays in the past. If you touch that drawer again, the contract is void."

Before I could respond, the bus door hissed open at the front, and a roar of noise flooded in.

"The sponsors are here!" Ben shouted. "And they brought the lawyers!"

Ethan gripped my arm, leaning in close. "Fix your face, Anya. We have a show to put on. And remember—you’re the one who told the world who he was. Don't make a liar out of yourself."