The Mask Returns

Hailey's POV

Kingsley's eyes snapped open.

The movement was sudden enough that it startled me back a step, my breath catching painfully in my throat. One second, he had been motionless, suspended in that fragile in-between state where machines and medicine decided whether a man stayed or went. The next, his gaze cut through the dim room, sharp and alert, as if he'd been pulled violently to the surface.

For a heartbeat, he looked lost.

His pupils were blown wide, breath shallow, chest rising too fast beneath the sheets. His eyes darted once, twice, taking in the ceiling, the lights, the unfamiliar stillness of the room. The hand beneath mine tightened reflexively, fingers curling as though he were reaching for something solid.

For that fleeting second, he looked human.

Then the mask slid back into place.

I felt it more than I saw it. The tension in his body shifted, his breathing slowing, his gaze sharpening into something cool and controlled. Whatever vulnerability had surfaced vanished behind that familiar steel-grey composure, the one he wore like armor.

The room seemed to shrink around us.

I withdrew my hand immediately, the intimacy of the moment collapsing in on itself. My shoulders straightened, spine stiffening as instinct took over. Whatever softness had crept into me during his unconsciousness evaporated, replaced by the same defensive precision I'd relied on for years.

Walls up.

He noticed.

His eyes tracked the movement of my hand, a faint glimmer of amusement flickering there despite the dryness cracking his lips.

"Well," he said hoarsely, his voice rough and unsteady but unmistakably his, "that's not exactly the welcome I was hoping for."

Relief surged through me, sudden and overwhelming.

I crushed it just as quickly.

I folded my arms across my chest, forcing distance into my posture. "You're awake," I said coolly, as if that fact meant nothing more to me than a line item checked off a list.

"Last I checked," he replied, shifting slightly against the pillows with a barely concealed wince, "that tends to be the goal."

"You shouldn't be joking," I snapped. "You nearly died."

"Yes," he agreed calmly. "But I survived. Which makes this a success story, doesn't it?"

I stared at him in disbelief. "You collapsed in front of half of Singapore."

"I prefer to think of it as making a memorable exit."

My jaw tightened. "You were bleeding."

"And you were glaring," he said lightly. "We all had our moments."

I took a step back, irritation flaring hot and sharp. "You think this is amusing?"

"No," he said, his gaze steady on mine. "I think you're rattled."

"I'm not."

"You are."

"I'm composed," I shot back. "There's a difference."

His eyes swept over me slowly, deliberately, as though cataloguing every detail I wished he wouldn't notice.

"Red eyes," he said. "Tight shoulders. You haven't slept."

"That's called exhaustion," I snapped. "Hospitals have that effect."

"Mm," he murmured. "You've been crying."

"I have not."

"You have."

"I was stressed," I said sharply. "Stop pretending you know what I'm feeling."

The faint curve of his mouth suggested he found that statement entertaining.

"Then stop advertising it."

Something in his tone scraped against a raw nerve.

I opened my mouth to retort, but the words died there as memory surged forward uninvited.

His fingers twitching beneath mine.

His voice.

The name.

My stomach tightened violently.

"What did you call me?" I demanded.

The change in him was immediate.

The faint humor vanished, replaced by something cold and impenetrable. His jaw tightened, a muscle jumping beneath the skin, and his eyes hardened in a way that made my pulse spike.

"I didn't call you anything."

"You did," I said, stepping closer to the bed despite myself. "You said a name. A nickname."

His gaze flicked away, fixing on the ceiling as if the answer might be written there. "You imagined it."

"I didn't imagine it."

"You were exhausted," he replied evenly. "Under emotional stress. Trauma does strange things to perception."

"That nickname isn't something anyone else knows," I said quietly. "Not unless they were there."

He looked at me then.

Really looked at me.

For a split second, the mask cracked.

It wasn't a dramatic fracture. Just a subtle falter, a hesitation that revealed something darker beneath the surface.

Then it was gone.

"Whatever you think you heard," he said coolly, "is irrelevant."

My pulse hammered. "Who were you talking to, Kingsley?"

Silence stretched between us, taut and dangerous.

The machines hummed softly, indifferent witnesses to the tension thickening in the room. I waited, my breath shallow, my mind racing through fragments of memory I couldn't quite grasp.

Then he smiled.

It was smooth. Perfectly timed. A masterful deflection.

"You should be relieved," he said. "I'm awake. Which means the deal proceeds as planned."

I stared at him, disbelief flaring hot in my chest. "You were unconscious for hours. You nearly bled out."

"And yet," he said lightly, "I'm still here."

"You threw yourself into danger," I snapped. "You didn't have to."

"You were the target," he replied calmly. "That made it my problem."

"I didn't ask you to protect me."

"You didn't need to."

The words landed harder than I expected.

"You don't own me," I said sharply.

His gaze darkened. "For the next year, you belong to me."

I laughed, cold and humorless. "Your heart belongs to the surgeon who stitched it back together."

For a moment, neither of us spoke.

His eyes dropped briefly, deliberately, to my lips.

The air shifted.

Something restrained and dangerous simmered between us, unspoken and undeniable. Hunger without permission. Curiosity edged with fear. Two magnets pushing and pulling at the same time, neither willing to give ground.

Then—

*Click. Click. Click.*

Heels.

The sound cut through the tension like a blade.

Before either of us could react, the door swung open violently.

Janet Lut walked in.

She was draped in expensive mourning black, the fabric clinging perfectly to her frame. Her hair was immaculate, makeup flawless despite the carefully placed tears streaking down her cheeks. She looked every inch the grieving friend, every movement calculated for maximum effect.

"Oh, Kingsley," she cried, rushing forward. "I was so worried—"

She reached his bed before I could even stand.