~Sophia's POV
The sterile scent of the hospital room alone made my stomach turn. It sort of remained me that I hadn't been anywhere else aside my apartment and the company in a while. Here, surrounded by humming monitors and beeping machines, the chaos of the afternoon had been reduced to a quiet, terrifying stillness.
Mr. Gray was standing rigid, a marble sculpture in a custom suit. He wasn't just looking at Gracie, who lay pale but peacefully on the bed, her small body resting from shock. He was staring at her. The intruder.
The girl who had defied me, insulted him, and broken a priceless vase was now hooked up to an IV, a small white bandage stark against her dark hair where her head had struck the floor.
"Explain the subdural hematoma again," he demanded, his voice low and devoid of warmth, yet tighter than I had ever heard it.
He was grilling the neurosurgeon with the intensity he usually reserved for hostile takeover bids. "What are the precise odds of cerebral edema? I want a round-the-clock monitoring team. Three doctors. Two nurses. Shift overlap. Do it."
He was a perfectionist even in panic. He needed every variable defined, every risk quantified, because the truth, the randomness of injury, was something he could not control.
I watched him, a slow, cold twist settling in my chest. I had been his shield, his right hand, for seven years. I had seen him furious, calculated, and triumphant. I had never, ever, seen him this worried about anyone other than Gracie. And now there was this intruder, this messy variable, who had somehow earned a place under his worry list.
A commotion at the door broke the tension.
"Well, well! Look at this sad little party. Did someone order a floral catastrophe?"
Mr. Gray didn't need to turn to know it was him. Dorian Gray. Mr. Gray's cousin, and the polar opposite of the man I was secretly, hopelessly in love with. Dorian strolled in, radiating sunshine and reckless abandon, holding a hideous, oversized arrangement of garish orange and purple flowers.
"They look like they belong in a graveyard, Dorian," I murmured, resisting the urge to roll my eyes.
Dorian chuckled, completely unfazed. "Ah, Sophia. Always the picture of good cheer. And they might! I heard the news: a falling chandelier! A rescue! A spectacular head injury! It's like a terrible opera written by a child." He waved a hand toward the two unconscious figures. "Look at them, the little Sleeping Beauty and the… larger Sleeping Beauty. Maybe they'll just sleep forever. Save us all a great deal of drama."
"Shut up, Dorian," Mr. Gray commanded, his eyes flashing a warning.
Dorian instantly quieted, recognizing the razor edge in his cousin's voice. He leaned in to whisper, "I was just saying they look peaceful brother! A little too peaceful, perhaps. Did you see the damage? You know, the lobby is going to need a full remodel—"
Mr. Gray cut him off with a look that promised a slow, financial execution. Dorian immediately understood and pointed a dramatic finger at his mouth, zipping it shut.
"I'll stay and watch them tonight," Mr. Gray said, not to Dorian, but to me, his focus never leaving the intruder's pale face.
"Sir, when should I schedule your departure for? I can also bring a change of clothes," I asked, hiding the dull ache that he was staying, but not with me.
"I've already handled it. Dorian, you can leave too and with the flowers."
Dorian looked at his arrangement with genuine offence. "But they cost a fortune! They scream 'Get well soon!'"
"They scream graveyard," Mr. Gray corrected, and faint smirk touched my lips. We think the same. "They belong in the bin. Now, I need you to clean up the PR disaster. Lock down the news reports. No photos, no names. Especially no mention of the girl or Gracie."
Dorian sighed dramatically, gathering the flowers. "Fine. But you owe me. A yacht party with real champagne and a lot of hot girls, not your vintage grape juice."
I watched Dorian exit, throwing me a wink on his way out. He's a mess, I thought, this was why Mr. Gray's controlled intensity captivated me, only Mr. Gray was like me. Knowing what to do and doing it without much talk. We belong together, I often thought. We are the architects of this quiet, powerful world.
As the door clicked shut, I decided to step closer to Mr. Gray. "Sir, I can stay. I can monitor her vitals and keep the doctors organized. You should rest."
"No," he said simply. "I want them here. In the same room. I can watch them both."
Then he turned to me, his cold eyes focused. "Fire them all, Sophia. Every single person in the lobby who watched a child dangle from a chandelier and did nothing. All of them. And replace the entire security service by the end of the week."
My jaw tightened. "Sir, the security team was with me. I pulled them to the top floor because of the intruder. They weren't on duty."
"Fire them anyway," he repeated. "They failed to protect the building, and they failed to protect the girl. And Patty?"
"She let the intruder in, sir."
"Let her keep her job. She indirectly saved Gracie. The others were simply useless."
I nodded, moving toward the door, relieved that he didn't make mention of me also at the lobby looking. But Mr. Gray's voice stopped me.
"Sophia."
My heart did a silly, unprofessional flutter. He's going to tell me to stay, I thought, straightening my clothes. He needs me.
He didn't look at me. He looked back at the girl.
"Find the application she submitted for the secretary interview. The CV."
I blinked. "Sir?"
"Find it. And when you do, draw up a full-time, high-level work contract based on her qualifications. Have it ready for me."
I stared at him, genuinely stunned. "Are you serious, Mr. Gray? The girl is a liability. She's flighty, reckless, and she destroyed corporate property! She's the antithesis of everything you stand for..... she's too erratic, too… loud."
Mr. Gray finally turned, his gaze heavy, and delivered the last, stunning sentence.
"Just close the door on your way out, Sophia."
The dismissal was absolute. I closed the door, the click echoing the sound of my own quiet, professional heartbreak.