The hospital smell clung to Valerie like bad decisions and disinfectant.
She hated it.
Not because anything dramatic had happened, nothing had. That was almost worse. Everything had been calm. Clean. Controlled. The kind of calm that reminded her she wasn't in charge of her own body anymore.
By the time the car pulled into the driveway, her head was throbbing lightly, and her limbs felt like they'd been borrowed and returned wrong.
She stepped out slowly.
The house looked the same. Massive. Impressive. Quiet.
Too quiet.
The driver opened the door for her bag, but she waved him off. "I've got it. I think. Unless gravity has plans."
He hesitated, clearly unsure whether sarcasm counted as a medical concern.
She made it three steps before her knee wobbled.
"Okay," she muttered. "That's new."
A hand appeared at her elbow.
"Careful."
Richard.
She hadn't heard him approach. Of course she hadn't. He moved like the house, silent, expensive, always there when she didn't ask.
"I'm fine," she said automatically.
"I know," he replied, not letting go. "Indulge me anyway."
She rolled her eyes but didn't pull away. Mostly because her legs were still arguing with her brain.
"Next time," she said as they walked inside, "I'm emotionally blackmailing you into going through that too."
He glanced at her. "I already donated."
She paused. "Wow. I forgot that part."
"Hard to forget," he said dryly.
She snorted despite herself, then immediately regretted it when her head spun.
Richard noticed.
Of course he did.
He guided her toward the couch, firm but careful, like she might shatter if he moved too fast.
"Sit."
"I hate that word," she muttered, but obeyed.
She leaned back, staring at the ceiling. Same ceiling. Still judgmental.
"So," she said after a moment. "On a scale of one to ten, how clinical was my performance?"
His mouth twitched. "You followed instructions."
"That's not a number," she injected.
"It's a compliment," he answered.
She closed her eyes. "I feel like I should get a sticker."
"I can arrange that."
She laughed softly, then winced. "Okay, laughing is also cancelled."
He watched her closely now, concern slipping through his usual control. "Are you dizzy?" He asked.
"A little."
"Nauseous?"
"Only existentially."
"That's not helpful."
"It's accurate."
She shifted, then froze when the room tilted slightly.
"Okay," she admitted. "Maybe more than a little."
Richard stood immediately. "I'll call the doctor."
"No," she said quickly, grabbing his sleeve.
"Don't. They'll just say it's normal and charge you for saying it calmly."
He hesitated. "Valerie…"
"I just need a minute," she cut in. "And maybe water. Or juice. Or a personality transplant."
He sighed but nodded. "Stay here."
He returned quickly with a glass of water and helped her sit up enough to drink. His hand stayed at her back, steady and warm.
She noticed, but pretended not to.
"Thank you," she said, softer.
He inclined his head. "You handled today well."
She laughed quietly. "That's what people say when they don't know what else to say."
"It's still true."
She studied him then. The loosened tie. The crease between his brows. The fact that he hadn't left her alone for even five minutes since they got back.
"This is the part where you disappear back into billionaire mode, right?" she asked.
"Should I?"
"Probably."
.
He didn't move.
She raised an eyebrow. "You're breaking your own rules."
"I didn't make a rule about basic decency."
"Ah," she said. "Loopholes."
He almost smiled.
She shifted again, trying to get more comfortable, and the dizziness hit harder this time. Her vision blurred for a split second.
"Okay," she muttered. "That's rude."
Her body swayed before she could stop it.
Richard reacted instantly.
One second she was upright, the next she was against him, his arm around her waist, pulling her back before she could fall forward.
Her hand fisted into his shirt instinctively.
They froze.
Her breath hitched.
His grip tightened without thinking.
"Valerie," he said quietly. "Are you…"
"I'm okay," she whispered. "Just… give me a second."
She didn't move away.
Neither did he.
Her head rested briefly against his chest. She could hear his heartbeat. Strong. Steady.
Too close.
"This wasn't in the contract," she murmured.
"No," he said, voice low. "It wasn't."
She should've stepped back.
She didn't.
The moment stretched, too long, too charged, too human for something that was supposed to be transactional.
His hand adjusted slightly at her waist, thumb pressing in as if to ground her.
She looked up.
Really looked.
Not at Richard Crane, the billionaire.
Not at the man who held her future on paper.
Just a man standing too close, holding her like it made sense.
His eyes dropped to her lips.
Then snapped back to her eyes.
Something shifted.
Sharp. Sudden. Dangerous.
Richard's hand was still at her waist when he realized. Too firm. Too familiar.
Valerie looked up at him, breath uneven, eyes wide, not with fear, but something quieter. Something questioning.
His grip loosened, but he didn't step away.
For a moment, the contract didn't exist.
The house didn't exist.
The rules didn't exist.
It was just the way his thumb pressed slightly into
her side.
And the way she didn't pull back.
Richard inhaled sharply and released her like he'd been burned.
They stared at each other.
Neither of them spoke.
And that silence, that dangerous, trembling silence, was the first thing that felt real.