The clinical stillness of the VIP suite was a jarring contrast to the chaotic, blood-slicked street they had left behind. The room was bathed in the pale, artificial blue of the hospital's night-lights, smelling of antiseptic and the faint, expensive scent of Damian's cologne.
Damian's jaw was locked so tight it looked as though it were carved from granite. He sat on the edge of the reinforced medical bed, his large hand rhythmically patting Alina's head. She was a ghost of her former self, sleeping fitfully, her body jerking every few hours as if she were still trying to dodge the ghost of that black Mercedes.
Every time she moaned in her sleep, a sound of pure, unadulterated pain, Damian felt a part of his soul wither.
Outside these soundproof walls, the world was screaming. The news of the accident—and the death of a Soléne Couture designer—had spread through Los Angeles like a wildfire fueled by gasoline.
