Chapter 19

Ethan Blackwood blinked awake to the sterile white ceiling of a hospital room. His head throbbed beneath layers of gauze.

Vivian Lockhart hadn't left his side. The moment his eyes opened, her shoulders relaxed—just slightly—before she schooled her expression into something colder.

"You're conscious. Good. I'm leaving."

She lied. Every nerve in her body had been wired with worry, but she'd be damned before letting him see it.

His fingers closed around her wrist before she could step away. Weak, but insistent.

"Are you hurt?" His voice was rough, but his gaze—sharp as ever—scanned her for injuries.

Vivian's laugh was ice. "Save the concern, Mr. Blackwood. That heroic stunt nearly got you killed. I'm perfectly fine."

Four years. Four years she'd ached for even a shred of his attention. Now? It meant nothing.

Ethan ignored her tone, brow furrowing. "Those weren't just random thugs. How did you get away?"

Vivian stiffened. Explaining she'd knocked three men unconscious with her bare hands wasn't an option.

"That hard to answer?" His stare turned probing.

She met it head-on, pulse steady. "I name-dropped you, obviously. The mighty Blackwood heir."

"The second they heard who you were, they practically groveled. Then I dragged your sorry self here."

Flawless logic. The Blackwood name carried enough weight to make most criminals piss themselves.

Ethan bought it. But as his eyes traced her frame, something dark flickered in his expression.

"If you knew my name would work, why wait?"

Vivian blinked.

"Next time someone harasses you," he continued, voice low, "skip the theatrics. Just say you're my ex-wife."

Her lips parted. The audacity.

"Mr. Blackwood," she said sweetly, "do you know how many species go extinct daily?"

Ethan frowned. "What?"

"Exactly. None of your business."

His jaw clenched.

Vivian leaned in, smile razor-thin. "Know why curiosity killed the cat?"

"Why?"

"Because it couldn't mind its own damn business." She tossed her hair back. "Twenty days. That's all that's left. Focus on not dying—I hear it's bad for your health."

She turned before he could retort.

The Vivian from four years ago would've melted at his concern. This version? She'd rather swallow glass.

"Goodbye." The door clicked shut behind her.

No looking back.

Except—

She collided with a figure in the hallway. Hard.

Margaret Whitmore's perfume hit her first. Floral. Expensive.

And currently laced with venom.