Robert didn't respond to her outburst. He simply stood there for a long moment, the mist clinging to his dark hair, watching her back heave with the effort of staying composed. He realized that any words he offered now would be treated like poison. Without a word, he turned and pushed through the heavy metal door, descending back into the sterile silence of the hospital corridors.
As he walked toward the exit, his mind was a whirlwind of uncharacteristic disorder. He reached the lobby, and there, leaning against a pillar near the pharmacy, was the man from the motorbike.
Marcus looked up, his eyes widening as he recognized the face that graced the cover of every business magazine in the country. He pushed off the pillar, his protective instincts flaring even as his jaw dropped.
"Robert Greg?" Marcus breathed, his voice a mix of awe and suspicion. "What the hell is the CEO of Canberg Tech doing in a place like this?"
Robert stopped. He looked Marcus up and down, noting the ruggedness of his clothes and the honest, worried look in his eyes. This was the man Linda trusted. This was the man she hugged.
"I was settling a debt," Robert said coldly, his voice devoid of its usual arrogance. He reached into his coat and pulled out a heavy, embossed business card—the kind that granted access to offices most people couldn't even dream of entering.
He held it out to Marcus. "You're a rider. You have fast reflexes and a protective streak."
Marcus took the card, staring at the gold-leaf lettering. "What is this?"
"An opportunity," Robert said, his eyes flicking back toward the elevators Linda had disappeared into. "I have a security and logistics fleet that requires men who don't blink under pressure. If you want a job—a real one—be at my office at eight tomorrow morning."
Marcus looked from the card to the billionaire. "Why me? You don't even know my name."
"I know you're the only person she lets get close," Robert murmured, more to himself than to Marcus. "Consider it an investment in... infrastructure."
Before Marcus could ask another question, Robert turned and vanished through the sliding glass doors. He climbed into the back of his waiting car, the door closing with a solid, expensive thud that shut out the noise of the world.
"Back to the office, sir?" the driver asked.
"No," Robert said, staring out at the rain-slicked streets of Ottawa. "Home. I need to wash the scent of this place off me."
But as he sat in the dark, he realized that no matter how much he scrubbed, he couldn't get the image of Linda Thorne on that rooftop out of his head. He felt a strange, lingering heat where her finger had poked his chest, a mark no amount of "neatness" could ever erase.
Linda was still shivering when she stepped back into the sterile warmth of the hallway. Her eyes were rimmed with red, but her face was set like concrete. She found Marcus waiting by the nurse's station, his fingers nervously flicking the thick, expensive business card he'd been given.
"Linda, hey," Marcus said, stepping toward her. He hesitated, then held out the card. "You won't believe who I just ran into. Robert Greg. He was right here, in the lobby. He gave me this. He offered me a job in his logistics fleet, Lu. Big money. Real security."
Linda's eyes dropped to the card. The gold-embossed "Canberg Tech" logo felt like a burn against her retinas. The arrogance of the man—to fire her, follow her, and then try to buy the loyalty of the only friend she had left.
"Give it to me," she said, her voice a hollow, dangerous rasp.
"Lu, listen, the money could help with the hospital—"
"I said give it to me, Marcus!"
Startled, Marcus handed it over. Linda didn't hesitate; she tore the heavy card into four pieces and dropped them into a nearby biohazard bin.
"Don't go back there," she commanded, her gaze pinning him. "Don't ever go near that building or that man. He's a vulture. He looks at people like us as 'filth' to be managed or 'pedestrian' entertainment. We don't take his charity, and we don't take his crumbs."
"I was just thinking about your mom," Marcus argued gently, though his resolve was already crumbling under her fierce stare. "It's a way out, Linda."
"It's a leash, Marcus. And I've spent my whole life breaking leashes." She grabbed his arm, her grip tight. "Promise me. We handle this our way. Like we always do. We're done with Robert Greg. We're never crossing paths with that world again."
Marcus looked at the fierce, beautiful woman in front of him—the girl who had fought for him in the schoolyard and for her family every day since. He let out a long, defeated sigh and nodded. "Okay. No Robert Greg. I'm with you, Lu. Always."
Linda let out a breath she'd been holding since the rooftop. She turned her back on the lobby, on the memory of Robert's cold baritone, and on the lure of his wealth. As far as she was concerned, Robert Greg was a ghost, and she was moving back into the shadows where she belonged.
Two weeks had passed in a blur of sterile silence for Robert. He had replaced Linda with a team of professional detailers who didn't talk back, didn't smell like rain, and certainly didn't grab his collar. His life was back to its perfect, orderly state—yet he found himself staring at the empty passenger seat of his car more often than he cared to admit.
He was in his office, reviewing quarterly projections, when Job burst in. His friend looked revitalized, his gym-inflicted bruises now nothing but a memory, replaced by a glint of excitement in his eyes.
"I found her, Rob," Job announced, dropping a grainy, printed photograph onto Robert's pristine mahogany desk.
Robert didn't look up, but his pulse spiked. "I thought I told you to drop the 'angel' with the heavy hands."
"I couldn't help it. I did a deep dive into the local circuit," Job said, leaning over the desk. "She isn't just a girl who hits hard at the gym. She's a legend in the underground. They call her 'The Ghost of the Ward.' She fights for cash—real cash—in the pits."
Robert's gaze finally drifted to the photo. It was a shot of Linda in a dimly lit, cage-like ring, her hair pulled back, her knuckles wrapped in blood-stained tape. She looked ferocious. She looked alive.
"There's a match tonight," Job continued, checking his watch. "It's in the basement of an old textile factory on the East Side. Dirty, loud, and probably full of people who haven't showered in a decade. I'm definitely going. I want to see the hurricane in action."
Job turned to leave, then paused, tossing a mock-salute. "I'd invite you, but I know the drill. 'Too nasty,' 'too dirty,' 'not enough hand sanitizer in the world.' Enjoy your quiet night with your spreadsheets, Rob."
"What time?" Robert asked.
Job froze, his hand on the door handle. He slowly turned around, his jaw practically hitting the floor. "Excuse me?"
"The match," Robert repeated, stood up, and adjusted his cuffs with surgical precision. "What time does it start?"
"You're... you're joking," Job stammered. "Rob, you literally carry a silk handkerchief to avoid touching elevator buttons. This place is a cesspool. There's spit, sweat, and probably a few things I can't name on the floor."
Robert grabbed his overcoat, his eyes as cold and focused as a hunter's. "I'm well aware of the hygiene standards, Job. But it seems I have some unfinished business with Ms. Thorne."
Job stared at him, bewildered. "You're actually coming. You're going to a cage fight in a tuxedo."
"I won't be in a tuxedo," Robert murmured, heading for the private elevator. "But I will be there."