Her name stopped her cold.
And slowly—far too slowly—she turned back.
And it was him.
Lucien.
For a second, she almost wished it had been anyone else.
A stranger would have been easier. A stranger wouldn't have looked at her the way he did now.
Recognition flickered across his face first.
Then concern.
His posture shifted as though he were already preparing to close the distance between them, ready to steady her if she so much as swayed.
"Mira," he said carefully, searching her face. "What's wrong?"
The sound of her name in his voice startled her.
Then she shook her head, too quickly, too firmly, already stepping back.
"Nothing," she said, and the word came out sharper than she meant it to, defensive instead of calm. "I'm fine."
Lucien's gaze dropped for a fraction of a second—to her lashes still damp, to the faint redness around her eyes, to the way her fingers were curled tightly at her sides as though she were holding herself together by force.
"You don't look fine," he said quietly.
There was no accusation in it.
Only truth.
Her jaw tightened.
"I said I'm fine."
This time it sounded less defensive and more like a warning.
She didn't wait for him to respond.
Didn't give him time to analyze the cracks she hadn't fully concealed. She pivoted abruptly and walked away, the movement almost abrupt enough to be called an escape.
Her steps were uneven, hurried, almost desperate, heels striking the polished floor in a rhythm that betrayed how little control she actually had.
If she slowed down, she knew the tears would come back. If she stopped, she might shatter completely.
He called after her—softly—but she pretended not to hear.
She did not look back.
She couldn't.
She kept walking, cutting down the corridor toward the wing Alexis had told her about, her vision blurring again as the tears she had barely contained began to gather once more.
The check-up passed in a blur.
A seamless procession of forms she filled out without truly reading, polite questions delivered in calm, professional tones, gentle nurses whose practiced smiles never faltered, and machines that hummed softly in the background, their quiet efficiency somehow making everything feel even more unreal.
She followed every instruction without really hearing them, allowing herself to be guided from one room to another, from one procedure to the next, as though she were moving through a dream she had no control over.
"Just step up here for me."
"Turn slightly to your left."
"Hold your breath… and release."
She complied with everything they asked of her—blood pressure readings, scans, X-rays, physical examinations—responding when prompted, shifting when told, holding her breath when instructed, all with the same composed obedience that had become second nature to her.
The nurse commented once that she was "handling everything very well."
Mira smiled politely.
She had been handling things very well her entire life.
She did not protest, did not complain, did not even hesitate, and above all, she did not let anything show, not the ache in her body, not the turmoil in her chest, and certainly not the storm of thoughts she was trying desperately to keep contained.
By the time it was over—by the time she had been handed a neat stack of discharge papers and reassurances delivered in those same calm, professional tones—she felt hollowed out rather than relieved.
"You're cleared," the doctor said. "Some bruising. Nothing concerning. Rest would be advisable."
Rest.
As though rest were something one could simply schedule.
The nurse by the door offered her discharge instructions.
"Ice the areas if they swell. Avoid anything strenuous. And please, actually rest. Don't just say you will."
Mira nodded.
"I mean it," the nurse added with a soft smile. "Your body heals faster when you let it."
"I'll try," Mira said.
She thanked them. She meant it. Then she stepped back into the corridor, the fluorescent lighting too bright after the dim examination room.
All she wanted was distance.
Distance from the hospital.
From the questions.
From the concerned glances that lingered a fraction too long.
And most of all—from everything that waited for her beyond those doors.
She knew, with quiet certainty, that the man Cassian had assigned to her—his trusted guard—would be waiting near the main entrance, standing exactly where he had been told to stand, ready to escort her, ready to report, ready to make sure she went exactly where she was supposed to go.
She also knew that if she walked out that way, she would not simply be leaving a building; she would be stepping back into a world of questions, of controlled concern, of careful observation, of being guided and watched and managed in ways she did not have the strength to endure right now.
And she could not handle that—not the attention, not the explanations, not the quiet scrutiny that would follow her every step—because at this moment, all she wanted was to breathe without anyone asking her why.
Her fingers tightened around the stack of papers until the edges bent slightly under the pressure.
She glanced down the long corridor, its polished floor reflecting the overhead lights in clean, indifferent lines.
To the right: the main exit.
To the left: a narrower hallway marked Staff Only, quieter, dimmer, leading toward a discreet side access door she had noticed earlier when a nurse stepped out to take a call.
Her pulse quickened.
She knew it was irrational.
Childish, perhaps.
To believe that avoiding a single encounter might grant her relief.
But the idea of slipping out unseen—of reclaiming even one small decision that belonged to her alone—felt almost necessary.
And she couldn't handle walking back into that waiting world.
Not right now.
Not when she was still holding herself together by nothing more than stubborn pride.
Not when the mere thought of seeing him again made her chest tighten in ways the doctor's reassurances could not soothe.
She exhaled slowly.
Then, instead of turning toward the main entrance—
She walked left.