Callahan returned to the cafe the next day, but she was already gone.

The manager told him she had resigned. Standing in the center of the empty shop, Callahan felt a gut-wrenching helplessness he’d never known. His money, his influence, everything he’d built his life around—it was all useless. To her, it was less than nothing.

He was reduced to watching from the sidelines. Then, one afternoon, he saw her sway while wiping a table. She clutched the edge of the wood, bowing her head, and remained motionless.

His heart hammered against his ribs. Before he could even think, he was across the room, catching her just as her knees began to buckle.

"Maya!"

Her skin was scorching. She had a high fever. His hand flew to her forehead—she was burning up. "You’re in a bad way. I’m taking you to the hospital."

Maya tried to push him off, but she was too weak. Her hands fluttered uselessly against his chest. "Leave me alone."

"Not this time." For once, Callahan was iron-willed.

He scooped her into his arms. She was terrifyingly light—almost weightless. It made his chest ache. He walked past the stunned manager, barked, "She’s resigned," and ignored her faint, gasping protests. He buckled her into his car and sped toward the nearest private medical center.

The sterile smell of the hospital was suffocating. After a flurry of tests, the doctor emerged, brow furrowed. "A fever of 103, pelvic inflammatory disease, and an active infection. She’s severely malnourished, anemic, and showing signs of early pneumonia. She needs to be admitted immediately."

Callahan’s stomach dropped. He handled the paperwork, his focus entirely on the girl in the bed. He watched her pale, fragile face, wishing he could erase the past year. How had she survived this long on her own?

When Maya finally woke, the sky outside was ink-black. She blinked, her vision slowly adjusting to the dim room. Callahan was slumped in a chair by her bedside. He looked like hell—stubble shadowing his jaw, deep shadows carved under his eyes.

Their eyes locked.

Maya stared at the ceiling, her voice a ragged whisper. "Just go."

Callahan’s eyes stung. He reached out and took her hand—ice cold—and squeezed, trying to force some of his own heat into her. "I’m not going anywhere. Hate me, resent me—I don’t care. But I’m not letting you suffer alone anymore."

"My life," she said, trying to pull away but failing, "has nothing to do with you."

"It does!" Callahan looked at her, his voice heavy with a desperation that was terrifying even to him. "Maya Cole, my life—every breath, every moment—is bound to yours."

Maya closed her eyes, drained, refusing to look at him again.

The tension shattered when Ishaan Montgomery walked in. He carried a bouquet of sunflowers and stopped dead when he saw Callahan. Callahan immediately went into predator mode, his posture stiffening, his eyes hard.

"Who are you?" Ishaan asked, frowning at the way Callahan held her hand.

"I’m her fiancé." Callahan stood, physically blocking Ishaan’s view of her. His voice was glacial.

Ishaan chuckled—a dry, mocking sound. "Her fiancé? Maya told me she was single. No boyfriend, and definitely no fiancé."

Callahan’s face darkened, but before he could snap back, Maya’s weak but clear voice drifted from the bed. "Ishaan, you’re here. Come in."

Ishaan stepped around the rigid, looming Callahan and walked to the bedside. He tucked the sunflowers into a vase, his entire demeanor softening. "Feeling better? What did the doctor say?"

"Better. It’s just the fever—an old issue," Maya replied, her voice warmer than it had been with Callahan.

"Good. I brought you some chicken noodle soup. Have a little." Ishaan pulled a high-end thermal container from his bag.

The easy, natural chemistry between them left Callahan feeling like a total outsider. He tried to interject, but Maya shut him down instantly.

"Get out."

Her tone was flat, final. Callahan retreated to the doorway, his back pressed against the cold wall. He listened to their low, intimate laughter and the easy rhythm of their conversation. Jealousy burned through his composure like a wildfire, but he didn't even have the right to walk back in.

Throughout her hospital stay, Callahan barely left her side. He’d never cared for anyone in his life, and his efforts were clumsy, desperate, and ultimately pathetic. He called home, had his personal chef walk him through recipes over the phone, and spent hours in a tiny apartment kitchen trying to make soup. He used too little water, too much salt, and burned his hands on the stovetop, only to end up with a bowl of flavorless mush.

Maya didn't say a word. She didn't even touch the soup. He dumped it, tried again the next day, and kept at it. When she coughed at night, he was awake instantly, propping her up and rubbing her back as she sipped water. When she curled into herself, her shoulders looking impossibly thin, he would hover, his gestures awkward and hesitant.

She never responded. She never pushed him away. She just existed, drifting there like a hollow, broken doll.