Chapter 32

Fury, and then the less-than-dazzling spectacle of a fight. The night Bollins was canceled. Nine trained fighters, then the tense silence of two. We would be all remnants. Blood sprayed as Asher's fist connected with Drake's jaw.

Thaba winced in horror as both men fought fiercely. Asher's driver tried to intervene but was thrown aside. The building's security guard, witnessing the brutality, wisely called the police. Passersby kept well away from the scene; no one dared intervene—not with the deadly intensity radiating from both men.

By the time the authorities arrived, both men were bloody and disheveled. Drake's face was swollen beyond recognition, blood streaming from a gash. Asher's jaw was marred by cuts and abrasions.

Thalia rushed to them, her voice breaking. "Oh God, you're here. We need to get you to…"

Asher's murderous gaze widened at her concern. "I'm fine."

"Thaba," she pleaded, "who… who is he?"

She turned to Asher, her eyes blazing with cold fury. "Drake, get out of my sight immediately!"

The words hung in the air. Drake's chest constricted painfully. She'd nursed him through countless injuries, yet now she stared at his bloody face without a flicker of concern.

"Who is he?" Drake's voice cracked.

"My fiancé."

Drake's face crumpled. "You're lying…"

But Thalia was already helping Asher into an ambulance, leaving Drake to be loaded into a separate one. By a cruel twist of fate, or administrative efficiency, they were placed in the same room. Drake lay in the bed nearest the door, his head swathed in bandages, an IV dripping steadily.

When Thalia entered, her eyes first fell on Drake. For a moment, something flickered in her expression—perhaps a memory of all those times she'd anxiously watched over him. But it vanished instantly as she walked past him without a word, going to Asher's bedside.

She settled beside Asher, her movements gentle. "Does it hurt badly?" Her tenderness pierced Drake's heart more deeply than any wound.

He watched her help Asher drink water, each small gesture a knife twisting in his chest. This was his Thalia—the woman who'd stayed awake with him during a simple cold, who'd cried at the slightest scratch.

"Thalia," he called softly, then more urgently when she didn't respond. "Thalia, please."

She continued speaking softly to Asher, her indifference more devastating than any anger.

Drake watched, unable to look away. Every gentle touch, every worried glance she gave Asher was a reminder of what he'd lost. Their intimacy was now his lost privilege.

After taking statements, the police left with signed documents, agreeing to a private settlement. Assault charges dissolved into a gentlemen's agreement—typical of the upper class.

Moments later, William burst in with two security personnel, his usually impeccable appearance disheveled. Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the cool evening.

"Mr. Blackwood!" His face paled at the sight of his employer. "What happened, sir?"

Panic laced his question. How had a simple dinner delivery escalated to this? Lady Blackwood would be furious if she learned of her son's condition. The family's public image couldn't afford such a scandal.

"Nothing," Asher's voice was steely, despite the pain from his split lip. "This incident stays in this room. Not a word to my family. Understood?"