The St. Yves Private Clinic was not a hospital. It was a fortress of glass and steel, hidden in the hills, reserved for the city's elite.
There were no waiting lines here. No paperwork. Just silence and money.
Bastian kicked the double doors of the V.I.P. suite open, still carrying Anaïs in his arms.
"Doctor!" Bastian roared. "Get in here! Now!"
Nurses scrambled out of the way. A grey-haired doctor—Dr. Aris, the St. Yves family physician—came running down the hall.
"Mr. St. Yves?" Dr. Aris gasped. "We weren't expecting you. Is it... is it your heart again?"
"It's her ankle," Bastian snapped, gently depositing Anaïs onto the pristine white hospital bed. "She fell down a flight of marble stairs. Check for fractures. And check her head for concussion."
Anaïs sat up quickly, pulling her trench coat tighter around herself. She was still wearing the mask and sunglasses, though the glasses were crooked.
"I don't need a head check," she said, her voice muffled and panicked. "Just wrap the ankle so I can leave."
"You aren't leaving," Bastian said, standing at the foot of the bed like a warden. "Not until I say you're cleared."
Sacha, who had been running to keep up with Bastian's long strides, scrambled onto the bed next to his mother. He glared at Bastian like a tiger cub protecting its wounded mother.
"You're bossy," Sacha spat. "Mommy says bossy men end up lonely."
Bastian ignored the jab. He looked at Dr. Aris. "Check her."
Dr. Aris approached cautiously. "Ma'am, I need to see your pupils to check for a concussion. Could you remove your glasses and mask?"
"No," Anaïs said instantly. "I have... a condition. My eyes are sensitive to light."
"And the mask?" Bastian asked, stepping closer. His voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. "Is your mouth sensitive to light too, Eve?"
Anaïs looked at him. She saw the suspicion burning in his grey eyes. He was fishing. He wanted her to slip up.
"I have severe scarring," Anaïs lied, reciting the backstory she had built for five years. "It scares children. I prefer to keep it covered."
"I'm not a child," Bastian said. "And I don't scare easily."
He reached out, his hand moving toward her face.
"I said NO!" Anaïs shouted, shrinking back against the pillows.
"HEY!"
Sacha launched himself off the mattress. He didn't punch; he bit. He sank his small teeth right into Bastian's hand.
"Ah!" Bastian jerked back, shaking his hand. He looked at the boy in shock. "You bit me!"
"I'll do it again!" Sacha threatened, baring his teeth. "Stop trying to undress my mommy! You pervert!"
Dr. Aris coughed awkwardly to hide a laugh. "Mr. St. Yves, perhaps... perhaps you should wait outside? The patient seems distressed."
Bastian looked at the bite mark on his hand. Then he looked at Anaïs, who was clutching Sacha, shaking.
He realized he was losing control. If he forced the mask off now, in front of witnesses, he would look like a monster.
"Fine," Bastian gritted out. "Check the ankle. I'll wait right here."
He walked to the door. He didn't leave. He turned the lock.
Click.
Then he leaned against it, crossing his arms.
"No one leaves this room," Bastian declared.
Twenty Minutes Later.
Dr. Aris finished wrapping Anaïs's ankle.
"It's a severe sprain, but no fracture," the doctor said, writing on a clipboard. "You need to stay off it for at least three days. Ice, elevation, and rest."
"Thank you, Doctor," Anaïs whispered. "Can I go now?"
"Well, usually we observe patients for—"
"She can go," Bastian cut in from the door. "I'll drive her."
"No!" Anaïs said. "I'll call a taxi."
"A taxi won't get past the security gate," Bastian said calmly. "I locked down the facility."
Anaïs froze. She looked at him. He wasn't joking.
"Dr. Aris, leave us," Bastian ordered.
The doctor hesitated, sensing the lethal tension in the room, but he nodded and scurried out the side door.
Now it was just the three of them.
Bastian walked slowly toward the bed. The room felt suffocatingly small.
"Rain and Vanilla," Bastian said softly.
Anaïs stiffened. "Excuse me?"
"Your perfume," Bastian said. He stopped at the side of the bed. "It's very specific. It's a custom blend. My wife used to wear it. In fact, I ordered it for her from a perfumer in Grasse."
He leaned down, placing his hands on the bed rails, trapping her.
"Where did you get it, Eve?"
Anaïs's heart hammered against her ribs. She had made a mistake. In her rush this morning, she had grabbed the old bottle—her comfort scent.
"It's not custom," she lied, forcing her voice to be steady. "I bought it at a duty-free shop in Dubai. It's generic."
"Generic," Bastian repeated. He didn't believe her.
He looked at her hands. They were clenched in her lap.
"My wife had a scar," Bastian said, his eyes drifting to her right wrist. "A burn mark. Shaped like a crescent moon."
Anaïs instinctively covered her right wrist with her left hand.
Bastian saw the movement. His eyes flared.
"Show me your wrist."
"Bastian, stop," Anaïs warned, her voice cracking.
"Show me!"
He reached for her arm.
"Don't touch her!" Sacha yelled, grabbing a pitcher of water from the bedside table and throwing it.
Splash!
Ice-cold water soaked Bastian's shirt and pants.
Bastian gasped, stepping back, water dripping from his chin.
"You little demon," Bastian muttered, wiping his face.
"Leave her alone!" Sacha stood on the bed, looking small but mighty. "Why are you bullying her? Just because you miss your dead wife doesn't mean you can steal mine!"
Bastian froze. The water dripped onto the floor. Drip. Drip.
"What did you say?" Bastian whispered.
"You keep talking about your wife!" Sacha shouted. "My mommy isn't her! My mommy is Eve! She's alive! Go visit a graveyard if you want to talk to ghosts!"
The words were cruel. They were the kind of brutal truth only a child could deliver.
Bastian looked at Sacha. Then he looked at Anaïs.
She wasn't looking at him with love. She was looking at him with fear.
Bastian felt a sudden, crushing wave of exhaustion. The adrenaline faded, leaving him feeling cold and stupid.
Maybe the boy was right.
Maybe he was crazy.
Anaïs was dead. He had seen the car. He had buried an empty casket, but the police report was final. This woman was just a French manager with a similar perfume and a protective son.
He ran a hand through his wet hair.
"I..." Bastian's voice was rough. "I apologize."
Anaïs blinked behind her sunglasses. He was apologizing? The Tyrant?
"I'm tired," Bastian murmured, looking away. "I haven't slept well in five years. Sometimes... sometimes I see things."
He unlocked the door.
"My driver is outside," Bastian said, his back to them. "He will take you to your hotel. You have three days off. If you aren't on set by Monday, Sacha is in breach of contract."
He didn't look back. He walked out of the room, his wet shoes squeaking on the linoleum.
Anaïs watched the door close.
She let out a breath that sounded like a sob.
She slumped back against the pillows, shaking uncontrollably.
"Mommy?" Sacha whispered, crawling into her lap. "Did we win?"
Anaïs hugged him so tight it hurt. She buried her face in his hair to hide her tears.
"Yes, baby," she whispered. "We won."
But as she looked at the door, she knew the truth.
Bastian wasn't done. He had apologized, but the hunger in his eyes hadn't disappeared. It had just gone underground.
She rolled up her right sleeve.
There, on her wrist, covered by a layer of waterproof concealer, was a faint, crescent-shaped burn scar.
She pulled the sleeve back down.
"We have to be more careful," she told Sacha. "Level Three is going to be impossible."
Meanwhile, in the Hallway.
Bastian stood there, water dripping from his expensive suit onto the sterile hospital floor. Drip. Drip.
The bite mark on his hand throbbed. A small crescent of blood where the boy's teeth had broken the skin.
Ken approached cautiously with a towel. "Sir? The doctor says she needs rest. Should we cancel the shoot for Monday?"
Bastian stared at the closed door.
Inside that room was a woman who smelled like rain and vanilla. A woman whose blue eyes made his chest ache.
But the boy was right.
Go visit a graveyard if you want to talk to ghosts.
"No," Bastian said, his voice cold and hollow. "We don't cancel anything. Business proceeds as usual."
He looked at his hand. The physical pain grounded him.
"I'm losing my mind, Ken," Bastian whispered, more to himself than his assistant. "I'm seeing ghosts because I'm tired. I'm projecting my wife onto a stranger."
"Sir?"
"Eve," Bastian said, the name tasting like ash in his mouth. "She's just a manager. A manager with a coincidence of eye color."
He pushed off the wall. He needed a drink. He needed to forget the way her body felt in his arms.
"Dig deeper into her background," Bastian ordered, wiping the water from his face.
"We already checked, Sir. Her records in France are sealed."
"Then unseal them," Bastian growled. "Hire a private investigator in Paris. Find her real name. Find her high school yearbook. Find a photo of her without that mask."
He stopped at the end of the hall and looked back at the door one last time.
"I want proof," Bastian said darkly. "I want proof that she is not Anaïs. Because if I keep looking into those eyes and hoping... I'm going to go insane."
He walked away, leaving wet footprints on the floor.
He wasn't hunting for a wife.
He was hunting for the truth that would kill his hope once and for all.