Winnie walked to the nightstand, her movements slightly clumsy as she opened the thermal container.
Inside was an exquisite French breakfast and a steaming pot of rich black coffee.
She poured a cup and placed it on the small swing-table in front of Anthony.
"I wasn't sure if you had family in the city to check on you, so I brought some breakfast."
Anthony shrugged his broad shoulders as best he could. "The nerve block in my upper chest hasn't worn off yet. My arms aren't exactly cooperating, so I'll pass for now."
A flash of cold calculation in Winnie's eyes vanished instantly, smoothly masked by a faint, practiced smile.
She took a deep breath, seemingly coming to a decision. She picked up a bowl of warm broth, scooped a spoonful, and brought it to Anthony's lips.
"Anthony, last night... before the police arrived." She met his eyes, her gaze filled with intense scrutiny and a hint of unspeakable anxiety.
"In that room, besides our argument and... me possibly stabbing you. What else do you remember?"
Her voice was pitched low, a cautious probe. Her eyes were locked onto his face, refusing to miss even the subtlest micro-expression.
Last night... that powerful, bronze-tanned body. Those fresh scratches and hickeys. And the terrifying, burning ache between her thighs when she regained consciousness...
These fragmented physical sensations stuck in her mind like needles, making it impossible to deny what had likely happened.
Yet, the "Rohypnol" had erased the actual memory, leaving behind a horrifying blank slate.
Right now, she desperately hoped that the man in front of her had also been heavily drugged and possessed zero memory of the night's events.
She watched Anthony frown, his eyes narrowing as if straining to pull something from a fog.
"Do you have any impression at all? I mean... before the argument."
She pressed the issue, a rare vulnerability and raw apprehension finally breaking through her icy exterior.
She needed an answer, even if it was the worst one possible.
Anthony observed the tension leaking through her forced composure.
Those beautiful eyes were filled with absolute dread over the missing pieces of her memory.
He remained silent for a few agonizing seconds, meeting her gaze with a perfectly crafted look of confusion and daze.
"Before?" His brow slowly relaxed, and he shook his head with an apologetic sigh.
"I had a few drinks with some guys last night. I don't even know how I ended up in that shithole. The next thing I remember is waking up to you screaming, and then I saw you holding a knife... and then you stabbed me."
Winnie stared intently into his eyes, searching for any trace of deceit.
But she only saw Anthony's frank, unbothered gaze.
"Miss Pritzker, I couldn't even lift my arms last night until the adrenaline hit when the cops kicked the door in," Anthony said, looking suitably nervous. "Was I drugged yesterday?"
Hearing this, the vice grip on Winnie's heart finally loosened. Her tense shoulders dropped a fraction, though her gaze remained complex.
"Regardless of the details, you saved me from a life-altering charge. I will remember this favor." After feeding him a few more sips of broth, her tone softened, carrying a hint of genuine concern.
Anthony swallowed, his voice clearing. "Winnie, do we really need to be so formal?"
Winnie, who had just turned to pour herself a cup of coffee, froze abruptly. Her chestnut-gold hair slid over her shoulder with the sudden stop.
"We were both pawns in someone else's sick game. Yes, you can call me Winnie." She managed a tight, polite smile.
Anthony's gaze drifted, a faint, nostalgic smirk touching the corners of his mouth.
"I think it's been about six years. You're still as beautiful as ever... exactly the same as when you used to pull my ears and lecture me back at Scarsdale High."
Boom.
It felt as though a flashbang had gone off in Winnie's mind.
She took a sudden, staggering step backward. Her hip bumped the heavy chair, emitting a harsh scrape across the linoleum floor. The coffee pot nearly slipped from her trembling hands.
Winnie's eyes widened, truly seeing the face in front of her for the first time.
The harsh bronze tan masked the pale complexion of the boy she remembered. The corded, muscular physique and broad shoulders had entirely replaced his once lanky frame.
But those eyes... with their trademark glint of rebellious playfulness. They perfectly matched the idiot from her past.
The floodgates of Winnie's memory burst wide open.
Before her eyes flashed an image of a tall, skinny boy who always hid copies of Guns & Ammo inside his textbooks. The boy who sat dead last in class rankings, but whose eyes always burned with a stubborn defiance.
The chronic troublemaker she, as the Honor Council Chair, used to drag by the ear, lecturing, "Anthony Tarasov, don't you dare drag the freshmen into your mess again!"
The boy who had clumsily asked her to the graduation prom, whose eyes had completely dimmed when she coldly rejected him, telling him, "I don't have time to waste on a future dropout."
"Anthony... Are you really Anthony Tarasov?"
Winnie's voice spiked an octave, trembling noticeably under the weight of extreme shock.
She stared at him, her elegant composure utterly shattered.
"The... the Anthony that the Dean of Students had on speed dial?"
"Seems you haven't completely forgotten me." Anthony grinned, flashing white teeth. "Anthony Tarasov. Just got back from Afghanistan. Surprised?"
"I certainly didn't expect that the woman I ran into at a flop house last night would be my high school Honor Council Chair."
"But, hey. At least the reunion wasn't totally boring."
A massive wave of absurdity crashed over Winnie, leaving her completely at a loss.
She looked at Anthony's frank, teasing gaze.
Then she thought of the stab wound on his chest—the one she had likely caused. And the phantom, ambiguous aches radiating through her own body.
A violent rush of heat surged into Winnie's cheeks. Her ears burned crimson, and sheer, unadulterated panic flooded her eyes.
She broke eye contact instantly, hurriedly shoving the coffee pot back into the thermal carrier as if it were a live grenade.
"I'm sorry... I... I just remembered I have something... the company... right! The board called an emergency meeting!"
She was babbling incoherently, her eyes darting everywhere except the hospital bed.
Winnie practically fled. Forgetting every lesson in high-society poise, she spun around and power-walked toward the door in a blind panic.
"Winnie." Anthony's voice called out from behind her.
Her hand hit the door handle, her steps halting abruptly. She didn't turn around.
"Let's get reacquainted," Anthony said, the smile evident in his voice. "I'm Anthony Tarasov. It's really good to see you again."
Winnie's back went rigid.
She didn't reply. Like a startled swan, she yanked the heavy door open, desperate to escape.
Just as she crossed the threshold, his voice rang out one last time.
"Winnie? Could you do me a favor and buy a dog? A six-month-old female beagle."
Winnie still didn't turn around. "I can do that."
"I need her by tomorrow."
"I'll have my assistant handle it immediately."
And with that, under the utterly baffled gaze of her assistant waiting in the hall, the Pritzker heiress fled in sheer panic.
The frantic clicking of her designer heels rapidly faded down the hospital corridor.
Only the lingering, intoxicating scent of sandalwood and autumn pear remained in the sterile room.
Anthony effortlessly reached out—ignoring his previous claim about his arms not working—and picked up the cup of black coffee Winnie had poured.
He took a slow sip. The bitter liquid burned down his throat. The playful smile vanished from his lips, replaced by a gaze as cold as a Siberian winter.
"Black. Iosef. Viggo."
He recited the names to the empty room, each syllable dripping with venom.
"The game has just begun."