Catherine held out her palm, and the doctor poured the antiseptic straight over the wound. She groaned and bit her tongue but held it steady.

"No, she shouldn't need stitches," the doctor said. "But that's only if she can keep a bandage on and avoid using the hand until it heals."

​​

"I'll make sure she doesn't," Sean said.

"Alright," the doctor said. "Her cuts are treated—most of them don't even need bandages, but her ankle looks pretty swollen. I'd say it's a sprain, but I'd have to check to be sure."

Cold fingers gripped her ankle and gently prodded at the skin. She winced slightly, while compared to the burning in her palm, the pain wasn't too bad.

"I didn't even notice her ankle," Sean said, sounding strained again. "Catherine, what happened?"

"I guess I sprained it when I tried to run," she said. "I'm not sure."

"I don't think it's broken," the doctor confirmed. "I'll wrap it to support it, but then she needs to stay off it and keep it elevated until the swelling goes down."

"Are you sure she's okay?" Sean asked. "I think—I think she got hit in the stomach."

The doctor stopped wrapping her ankle and turned to look at Sean, "You think she got hit in the stomach? Did she try to run? Now I've seen a lot of wives and girlfriends come in like this, and let me tell you, I have half a mind to call the police."

"No, he didn't do it," she said, and each word was more difficult to speak out than the last. "It was his sister. A car accident. With his sister."

The doctor gave her a suspicious look but nodded and finished wrapping her ankle. By the time he was done, Catherine couldn't keep her eyes open. She felt Sean's arms pick her up, and then everything went black.

When Catherine woke, she was nestled into a green velvet sofa, tucked carefully under a blanket. Her leg was propped up on a pile of pillows, and her head throbbed in pain. She groaned, and Geoffrey's concerned face hovered above her.

"Oh, Mrs. Blair, I'm so sorry," Geoffrey said. "I've failed you so terribly. Please, fire me, I don't deserve to work here anymore."

"It's not your fault, Geoffrey," she said.

"Oh, but it is," Geoffrey moaned. "I made a horrible mistake, but suddenly there were four of them rushing towards me. They took me by surprise, and I wasn't able to fight them off. When they finally let me go, I raced back to the tearoom, but it was too late—you were gone."

Catherine blinked, noticing for the first time that one of Geoffrey's eyes was swollen shut—surrounded by a purple and blue bruise.

"They planned it so well," she said. "It's not your fault."

"I'm just glad Mr. Blair got to you in time," Geoffrey said. "Oh, but look at what they did to you. I'll never forgive myself."

"It's okay," Catherine whispered.

Her throat ached, and her tongue felt dry and fuzzy in her mouth. Geoffrey's eyes widened when she heard Catherine groaned.

"Are you in pain?" Geoffrey asked.

"A little," Catherine admitted. "Whatever they drugged me with is still making me feel terrible."

"Did they drugged you?" Sean asked.

Catherine turned her head and saw him seated on a sofa across from her. His blue eyes burned with fury, and a muscle in his jaw twitched. His hands were clenched into fists at his side, and his knuckles looked pale.

"I'm fine," she whispered.

"You should eat something," he said, each word sounding choked.

"I'm not hungry," she said.

"You should eat something," he repeated.

He called for a servant and asked for a bowl of chicken soup to sent to the living room. When it arrived, he knelt on the floor beside her and raised the silver spoon to her lips. The steamy broth smelled surprisingly good, and she let him feed her the spoonful.

The warm broth soothed her throat, and she smiled. Sean raised another spoonful to her lips, but she shook her head.

"Is it cold?" he asked. "Do you want anything else?"

"No, it's fine," she said. "I can feed myself. I'm not a child."

He scoffed, "Have you forgotten about your hand?"

She looked at the thick gauze bandage wrapped around her right hand. Slowly, she pushed herself into a sitting position, freeing her left hand from the blankets.

"I have two hands," she said. "I can do it myself."

He got up off his knees and settled next to her on the sofa. Balancing the bowl with one hand, he scooped up more broth and raised it to her lips.

"Don't fight me on this," he said.

Though she knew it was childish, she pressed her lips and glared at him. After everything that had happened, fierce anger suddenly began to course through her blood. She remembered Marco's words at the airport, and she felt her anger grow even hotter. She looked at Sean and studied his face while he just stared back with concern.

Her stomach churned, and she looked down at her bandaged hand. Everything had been fuzzy and unreal, but she remembered Marco saying that Sean had forced him to call her. She thought about that phone call—how angry and upset she'd been. The mere memory brought hot tears to her eyes. Sean had manipulated her and played with her, just to test her loyalty to him. He was completely untrustworthy.

She thought about everything at the airport—Levi's involvement, how Sean's sister had been involved, and how carefully the plan had been crafted. And suddenly, a horrible idea began to take shape in her mind. What if the kidnapping had been another test? What if Sean had been behind the whole thing?

"Is your head okay?" he asked. "Are you still in pain?"

She shook her head but refused to look at him. His anger at the airport had seemed genuine, but what if it was just an act? She finally raised her head and stared at his face. His brow was wrinkled with concern, and his eyes were fierce and sad. Could a man with that expression lie to her? Who was he?

"What's that?" he asked.

"Nothing," she said, cursing her habit of speaking her thoughts. "I mean, I said I'm not hungry."

"Please, just eat a little," he said. "It'll help with the aftereffects of the drug."