"Victoria's having cravings again," he murmured.
Before he could leave, I gathered my strength to ask, "May I have my phone?"
He paused, studying me with sudden suspicion. "Who would you need to call?"
"My healer," I lied smoothly. "About my medication."
After a moment of deliberation, he instructed a nurse to bring my phone from the drawer.
As I scrolled through my notifications, I noticed dozens of missed calls from a number Alexander had never seen before.
"Who's been calling you so persistently?" he demanded, hostility creeping into his voice.
I looked up at him, my gaze unwavering for the first time in years. "Someone who actually cares whether I live or die."
His jaw tightened as he loosened his tie. Leaning over my hospital bed, he gripped the railing until his knuckles turned white.
"Olivia," he hissed, "I've tolerated your little rebellion long enough. You belong to me, remember? Everything you have—your medical care, this private room, the clothes on your back—all of it exists because of my generosity."
Once, those words would have broken me. I would have apologized, begged for forgiveness, tried to make amends.