Fiona stumbled out of the boutique, the erald dress long forgotten on the floor behind her. The sting on her cheek throbbed in hot, angry pulses, but it was nothing compared to the fresh wound Martin had just carved into her chest with six careless words.
*Because you’re sick. And bosses look after their workers.*
The sentence kept repeating in her head like a broken record, each replay twisting the knife deeper. She could still see his face when he said it calm, reasonable, almost gentle like he was stating an obvious company policy. Like the kiss in the elevator yesterday, the way his fingers had been inside her while she moaned his na, the way he’d growled *don’t run again* against her throat, had all been part of so HR-approved wellness program.
Her blood pressure spiked so hard she felt dizzy.
*Worker.*
That was all she was to him.
Not the woman he’d fucked senseless in a velvet suite.
Not the woman he’d kissed like she was oxygen.
Just... a worker.
She walked faster, head down, hoodie pulled up against the misting rain. The mall corridor blurred around her people laughing, bags rustling, music playing overhead. None of it reached her. She needed to get ho. Needed walls. Needed silence. Needed to curl up and pretend today hadn’t happened.
She didn’t notice the black sedan trailing at a discreet distance, never too close, never too far.
Victor Kane kept his eyes on her small figure weaving through the crowd. Boss’s orders: make sure she gets ho safe. Don’t let her see you.
Back in the boutique, Martin stood motionless for a long second after Fiona walked .
He stared at the empty doorway.
*Why did I say that?*
The question burned in his skull.
*Bosses look after their workers.*
He’d said it like it was nothing. Like it explained everything. Like it could erase the way he’d kissed her yesterday, the way he’d felt her co apart on his hand, the way he’d spent the entire night replaying her broken moan of his na.
He’d said it because he was scared.
Scared of admitting out loud that she was more.
Scared of what it would an if he let himself feel it fully.
Scared of Valentine’s voice in his head: *Don’t get distracted. Don’t get weak. The Thorne rger is the future.*
And now she was gone.
And he’d let her leave thinking that was all she was.
A worker.
A fucking worker.
He pulled out his phone.
Dialed Victor again.
"She left," he said when the line connected. "Make sure she gets ho."
"Already on it, boss. She’s heading toward the east exit. Walking fast."
Martin exhaled—rough, pained.
He walked out and headed straight for his car.
He needed to fix this.
He needed to explain.
He needed her to know she wasn’t just a worker.
She was everything.
And he was terrified he’d already lost her before he even had the courage to claim her.
anwhile, Fiona kept walking—fast, head down, arms wrapped around herself.
Victor’s sedan rolled slowly behind her, far enough back that she did not notice.
She pressed her hand to her stomach.
Whispered:
"I’m sorry."
She didn’t know who she was apologizing to.
Martin.
The baby.
Herself.
But the apology sat heavy in her chest.
Fiona pushed open the apartnt door with her shoulder, too drained to use both hands.
She dropped her bag by the door.
Tried to slip past the couch without being seen.
Too late.
"Fiona?" Elara’s voice ca from the kitchen, soft but sharp with sudden worry. "Are you back from work this early?"
Footsteps. Elara appeared in the doorway, dish towel in one hand, the other already reaching out.
Her eyes landed on Fiona’s face.
She froze.
"Dear... what happened to your face?"
Fiona’s hand flew up instinctively covering the left cheek where Clara’s palm had landed. The skin was still hot, raised, a perfect red imprint of fingers that would probably bruise by morning. She hadn’t looked in a mirror since the boutique. Hadn’t wanted to see it.
Elara crossed the room in three strides.
"Sit," she said, voice firm but trembling underneath. "Now."
Fiona didn’t argue. She sank onto the couch like her strings had been cut. Elara knelt in front of her, gentle fingers catching Fiona’s wrist and pulling her hand away so she could see.
"Oh, baby..." Elara’s breath caught. "Who did this?"
Fiona’s eyes filled instantly.
She hadn’t cried in the mall. Hadn’t cried on the bus. Hadn’t cried walking up the stairs. But now now, with her mother looking at her like she was five years old again and soone had pushed her off the swings the tears ca fast and unstoppable.
"Clara," she whispered. "Marcus’s... Clara."
Elara’s face hardened—fury flashing behind the worry.
"That woman?"
Fiona nodded.
"She was in the mall. I was trying on a dress. She... she saw . Said I couldn’t afford it. Said Marcus would buy it for her. I told her to leave alone. She slapped ."
Elara’s hand ca up slow, careful cupped the uninjured side of Fiona’s face.
"Did anyone see?"
"Everyone," Fiona said. "Salespeople. Custors. Caras."
Elara’s thumb brushed away a tear.
"Good. Then she’ll pay for it."
"She will surely pay it"
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