The sharp, acidic tang of industrial-grade antiseptic burned his nostrils.

Ethan Spencer opened his eyes to a sterile, white ceiling. He tried to flex his fingers, but every nerve ending screamed. His body felt like a jigsaw puzzle that had been shattered and shoved back together by a blind man.

Two nurses were chatting near his bed, indifferent to his presence.

"Did you hear about Damon Meyer? That golden boy from the Meyer family? He got hammered last night and torched the place he shared with his girl. He said he couldn't stand the idea of her having memories of any other man."

"Are all those rich types this unhinged? No wonder Olivia Hayes has been hovering by his bedside like a guardian angel. You can tell they’re madly in love."

"It’s the staff at that villa I feel sorry for. They’re the ones who really paid the price."

*So that was it.*

Ethan felt a jagged shard of irony pierce his chest. He had nearly burned to death—a casualty of Olivia Hayes and Damon Meyer’s twisted brand of passion.

He tried to sit up, but a nurse rushed over, hand outstretched. "Don't move."

"You just finished a major skin graft," she warned, her voice devoid of empathy. "Stay still, or you'll get an infection."

Ethan’s throat was dry, his voice a rasp of disbelief. "A what?"

Pain clouded his vision. He assumed he was hallucinating, the side effect of heavy painkillers.

The nurse repeated it, louder this time. "A skin graft. You were the donor for Mr. Meyer’s procedure."

Ethan froze.

"It’s ridiculous, really," the nurse muttered, checking a monitor. "He barely had a minor burn, just needed some ointment for a few days. But he insisted on a graft, and your wife signed the papers for you herself."

Before the words could fully register, a slender silhouette stepped into the room.

Ethan gritted his teeth, his voice a jagged blade. "Olivia. On what authority did you make that decision?"

Olivia stood in silence for a long beat, her tone softening with a practiced, hollow sweetness. "Damon burned his hand, Ethan. He can't afford to have a scar."

She stepped closer, her expression composed. "You know how important his hands are for his painting. Your skin tone was the closest match, so they took a small section from you."

Ethan stared at her, the betrayal so heavy it felt like a physical weight in the room. He was the one with the severe burns, yet she had used him as a human spare part to preserve Damon Meyer’s vanity.

What did they think he was? A piece of inventory?

Ethan summoned every ounce of his dwindling strength, his voice breaking into a guttural roar. "Olivia, you are utterly delusional!"

"Get out!" he screamed, his breath hitching. "I don't want to see you."

Olivia ignored him, calmly opening a thermos and pouring a bowl of chicken broth. "Stop acting out. You’ve always had a fast recovery rate; you’ll be fine. I made this myself. Consider it compensation."

Ethan’s skin burned as he lunged, batting the bowl out of her hands with a violent shove. "Keep your charity!"

The broth splattered across the linoleum, a steaming, golden mess.

"You used me, you lied to me, and now you’re gutting me just for his convenience," Ethan spat, his voice trembling as the rage hit a wall of hollow despair. "Olivia, you don't have a heart."

He stared at the spilled liquid on the floor, his eyes glazing over. He suddenly panicked. He grabbed the lid of the thermos, pressed it to his nose, and took a deep, desperate breath. Then, he dipped a finger into the spilled broth and tasted it.

Nothing.

The world tilted. He couldn't smell the broth. He couldn't taste the salt, the fat, or the herbs.

"No," he whispered, a cold, suffocating dread clawing up his throat.

This was impossible.

He scrambled out of the bed, ignoring the nurses’ shouts, and sprinted toward the door. He caught the chief surgeon by the lapels, his eyes bloodshot, his veins bulging against his forehead.

"My taste! My smell! They’re gone!" he roared, his voice cracking. "Fix it!"

The doctor pushed his glasses up, looking at Ethan with a clinical, detached pity. "The exposure to extreme heat and toxic smoke severely damaged your olfactory nerves and taste buds. It’s a common complication. It might be temporary—"

"Might?" Ethan cut him off, his grip tightening. "How long? Days? Weeks?"

"It’s hard to say," the doctor said, peeling Ethan’s hands off his coat. "In cases like this, the damage can sometimes be permanent. There's a very real chance it will never return."

*Never return.*

The words hit him like a bullet. They weren't just medical observations; they were the final death knell for the man he had spent his life becoming. Every dream he held, every drop of sweat he’d poured into his craft—shattered.