Cassian sped off without another word.
The car pulled away so abruptly that the wind from its movement brushed against Mira's clothes, leaving her standing where she was as the sound faded into the street.
She did not move right away.
Her body remained rigid, her breath shallow, her attention fixed on the place he had been, as though moving too soon would make the moment real.
It took several seconds before her chest rose properly again.
By then, the silence felt louder than the engine ever had.
She barely had time to process the fact that he was gone before someone else stepped into the space beside her, quiet and precise, as though he had always been there and she had simply failed to notice.
The man was tall, composed, dressed in the kind of quiet, expensive professionalism that did not need to announce itself.
He stepped forward just enough to be seen without being intrusive. His posture was relaxed, but alert, and there was something unmistakably deliberate in the way he carried himself.
"My name is Alexis," he said calmly. "I've been assigned to you for the day."
She stared at him.
"Assigned?"
He inclined his head slightly, neither apologetic nor arrogant. "To ensure you arrive safely and without inconvenience."
The phrasing landed harder than it should have.
Cassian's voice echoed through the words, detached and final, as if care could be packaged into instructions and handed off without consequence.
Alexis continued without waiting for a response, his tone measured, efficient, as though the steadiness of his voice could compensate for the turbulence he sensed in hers.
He gave her the doctor's name, the department, the floor number, the department, and assured her that everything had already been arranged—that all she had to do was show up.
"It's all set," he said, his gaze steady on her face as if trying to read what she was not saying. "You only need to go in."
"I can accompany you inside," he added.
Mira shook her head almost immediately, though the motion lacked its usual certainty.
She was still gathering herself, still attempting to press the scattered pieces of her composure back into something presentable. The edges of her emotions felt exposed, thin-skinned and tender, and the thought of being observed—even by someone as discreet as Alexis—felt unbearable.
"No. Thank you," she said, carefully controlling the tremor that threatened to slip into her voice. "I'd prefer to go alone."
Alexis hesitated.
It was subtle, no more than the faint tightening of his jaw and the brief flicker of calculation in his eyes, but she noticed.
He had been assigned to ensure her safety. He had likely been given instructions that extended beyond simple transportation.
"This is only a check-up," she added, her voice gentle but firm. "I'll be fine."
He studied her for a moment longer, clearly weighing duty against discretion, then nodded once.
"I'll be nearby," he said instead. "If you need anything."
She didn't argue.
"Thank you," she said, offering him a small, composed smile that felt like it belonged to someone stronger than she currently felt.
Then she turned away before he could see the way her fingers curled tightly into her palm, before the strain reached her eyes in a way she no longer trusted herself to conceal.
The hospital swallowed her whole the moment she stepped inside, all glass and polished floors and hushed efficiency, the kind of place designed to feel calm, sterile, controlled.
She walked toward the elevator and pressed the button for the floor Alexis had given her.
When the doors slid open, she stepped inside without looking at anyone else, grateful for the temporary enclosure. The doors closed with a quiet, definitive hush.
And then—
Everything she had been holding back collapsed.
She leaned back against the mirrored wall, pressing the floor number with more force than necessary, her chest tight, her breathing shallow, her hands trembling despite her efforts to steady them.
She was still fuming—angry, wounded, humiliated by how suddenly everything had spiraled—but beneath the anger was something she did not know how to name.
She swallowed hard, staring at her reflection, but it blurred almost immediately as tears filled her eyes.
She blinked. Once. Twice.
They fell anyway.
She lifted a hand to wipe them away, frustrated, confused by herself, because she was not like this—she did not cry easily, did not unravel without reason, did not fall apart over words, no matter how sharp they were.
And yet here she was.
She inhaled sharply, as if offended by her own weakness.
"You're fine," she whispered to herself, though the words sounded foreign in the enclosed space.
The elevator climbed steadily upward, indifferent to the storm unfolding inside its walls.
Her shoulders began to shake despite her effort to remain still. She pressed the heel of her hand against her mouth to silence the sound threatening to escape, because even now—even alone—she refused to let herself fall apart loudly.
The numbers above the door blinked one by one.
Second floor.
Third.
Fourth.
Each one felt like a countdown.
She closed her eyes briefly, trying to regain control before the doors opened again and the world resumed its expectations.
But the tears kept coming, quiet and relentless, blurring the reflection of a woman who had survived far worse than this—and yet somehow felt undone by a single conversation.
By the time the elevator slowed, she had wiped her cheeks with trembling fingers, forcing her breathing into something steadier.
But the redness around her eyes remained.
And so did the ache.
The doors slid open.
She straightened automatically, instinct taking over, her body moving before her emotions could catch up, and she stepped out, her vision still blurred, her lashes heavy with tears, her focus narrowed to nothing but putting one foot in front of the other.
She had only taken a few steps when she walked straight into something solid.
Very solid.
A body.
A chest.
The impact was gentle but unexpected, enough to make her gasp softly as she stumbled back half a step, her balance wavering just enough to betray how unsteady she already was.
Warmth. Fabric. The faint, unmistakable scent of expensive cologne layered over something darker, something distinctly masculine.
She looked up on instinct.
And immediately wished she hadn't.
But with her eyes still blurred, her lashes wet, her vision distorted by tears, she couldn't make out who it was standing in front of her.
All she could see was the outline of a tall figure in a dark coat, broad shoulders blocking the corridor light.
Mortified, she immediately lowered her head, turning her face away so that the other person would not see her tear-streaked expression.
"I'm sorry," she murmured quickly, the apology barely more than a breath.
She tried to step around the person.
Tried to escape.
Tried to disappear.
But before she could move past them—
"Mira?"
Her name stopped her cold.