When I reached Rebecca's ward, she was already asleep. The room was dim, the kind of quiet that made every small sound feel louder than it should. A middle-aged woman stood near the bedside, folding a blanket with careful hands. She told me politely that she had been hired to stay here under Ashton's orders, to take care of everything.
Her words were calm, almost rehearsed.
It meant I was no longer needed.
I stood there for a moment longer, unsure why that thought stung more than it should have. Then I gave a small nod and left the room without saying much.
Outside, the hospital air felt colder than before. I hailed a cab and leaned back against the seat, watching the city lights blur past the window. My body felt heavy, like I had been carrying something unseen all night and only now realized how tired I was.
By the time I reached the villa, the sky was already shifting into dawn.
Everything felt quiet in a strange way, like the world itself was holding its breath.
I barely made it to the bedroom before I collapsed onto the bed. Sleep came quickly, pulling me under before I could even think properly. My exhaustion felt deeper than normal, the kind that clung to my bones and didn't let go easily.
I don't know how long I slept.
But I woke because of smoke.
Thick, heavy, suffocating.
My eyes opened slowly, adjusting to the dim room. At first, I thought I was still dreaming. Then I saw him.
Ashton sat at the edge of my bed, dressed in black, his presence almost blending into the shadows. The room was sealed tight, curtains drawn, windows closed. The air was filled with cigarette smoke, curling around him like something restless. A burning cigarette rested between his fingers, untouched for a moment too long.
I had never seen him like this before.
"You're back," I said quietly, pushing myself up.
My voice felt too soft in the thick air.
He didn't answer.
His eyes were on me, steady and unreadable. There was something different in his gaze tonight, something distant but sharp, like he was holding back thoughts I couldn't reach.
I frowned slightly and sat up straighter. The smoke made my throat burn, so I swung my legs off the bed and stood, moving toward the window.
"I need air," I muttered.
Before I could reach the curtains, Ashton rose from the sofa.
In a single step, he was behind me.
His hand caught my wrist and pulled me back.
I stumbled slightly as he brought me against him, his grip firm but not rough. His body was too close, his presence overwhelming in a way that made my heartbeat shift faster without warning.
"Ashton," I said again, sharper this time.
I tried to pull away, but he didn't let go.
The smoke lingered between us, and I turned my face slightly, trying to breathe around it. But he didn't move. He didn't loosen his hold. Instead, his arm tightened just a little, like something inside him had decided not to release me.
I could feel it then.
Not anger.
Something heavier.
Something quiet, but unstable.
"Let me go," I said, struggling now, my voice breaking slightly under the pressure of his grip and the choking air.
But he remained unmoved.
His silence pressed down on me more than the smoke ever could.
I managed to steady my breathing before looking up at him properly. His grip was still around me, firm and unyielding, like he didn't even realize how tightly he was holding on.
"You're drunk?" I asked quietly.
Now that I was close, the scent was unmistakable. It clung to him, heavy and sharp, mixed with something deeper—restless emotion, like he hadn't slept in days.
His eyes shifted slightly, unfocused. "You don't hate me?"
The question caught me off guard. I studied his face more carefully. His brow was tight, his jaw rough with stubble he hadn't bothered to shave. He looked worn down, not like the man who always carried control so easily.
"I do," I answered honestly.
I reached up to push his hands away, but he didn't let go. Instead, his grip tightened, like my words didn't reach him at all.
"What's wrong with you, Ashton?" I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.
His gaze stayed on me, distant and hazy. "Will you stop?"
"Stop what?" I frowned, confused.
He didn't answer.
But the way he looked at me changed.
Not in thought.
In intent.
I felt it before I understood it. The shift in his closeness, the way his hands moved like he was searching for something only he could see. My body went still instantly.
"No," I said, sharper now. "Ashton, I'm Scarlett. Not Rebecca. Look at me."
My hands went to his chest, trying to push him back. "Look properly."
For a moment, he paused. His eyes flickered, like something inside him was struggling to surface through the haze. Then he lifted me off my feet suddenly.
I gasped.
And before I could react, his lips crashed into mine.
The taste of alcohol hit me instantly, harsh and overwhelming. My hands pressed against his shoulders as I tried to pull away, but he didn't loosen his hold.
"Ashton!" I turned my face away, breath uneven. "It's me—Scarlett!"
I grabbed his face with both hands, forcing him to look at me. "Please… look at me."
For a second, he did.
His eyes were heavy, exhausted, almost lost. Like he was standing somewhere between memory and reality and couldn't tell the difference anymore.
"Mm…" he murmured softly, but it wasn't clear if he understood.
Then he leaned in again.
That was when I saw it.
The clothes on the floor. The mess of his jacket thrown across the bed. The blurred line of everything he had already started without thinking.
Reality snapped back into me.
I froze.
I'm pregnant.
The thought hit hard and clear, cutting through everything else.
"No," I whispered.
I shoved him with all my strength. This time, he stumbled back slightly, enough for me to break free. I quickly grabbed the blanket around me, pulling it tight as I stepped away from the bed.
"Ashton, you're drunk," I said again, firmer this time. My voice shook, but I didn't stay to hear his response.
I turned and walked out of the room.
The air outside felt colder, sharper, like it was pulling me back into myself. I didn't stop until I reached another room, my hands trembling as I changed into fresh clothes. My reflection in the mirror looked too pale, too distant, like I was already somewhere else.
I pressed a hand to my stomach quietly.
I couldn't stay there.
Not tonight.
Not like this.