Let her drown! Simon kept telling himself he didn't give a damn about that ungrateful woman. He just didn't want a dead body showing up at his villa. But the second he parked the car, he was already storming toward the pool. Lily had somehow crawled out of the water. The night air had turned biting cold, and the pool water was near freezing. Moments ago, she'd felt like she was burning alive—fire roaring through her veins, consuming her from the inside out. But the icy water had slowly doused those flames, bit by bit, until the heat faded to flickers… then nothing. Now that the burning was gone, the cold cut straight to the bone. Shivering, she tried to pull her soaked clothes tighter around herself. But her body had taken too much tonight—too much fear, too much pain. She'd been drugged, dragged around, jumped out a damn window, then plunged into freezing water. By the time she'd crawled to the edge and pulled herself out, her strength was completely spent. Before she could even grab her clothes, she crumpled onto the ground—motionless. "Lily, are you trying to die?!” Simon's expression twisted, dark with irritation. Even after throwing herself into an ice-cold pool, she still wouldn't ask him for help. His eyes were full of contempt. And yet—when she didn't move, didn't even twitch—he swore under his breath and stepped forward, scooping her up with one arm like she weighed nothing. "Call the doctor," he snapped. Seeing her drenched from head to toe, he grimaced. "And get her changed. Now.” Even the strongest person would've struggled after that ordeal. Her right ankle was already swollen and red, and soon after, her fever shot up past a hundred.The doctor came quickly, setting up an IV drip by her bedside. By the time it was all done, it was almost one in the morning. Simon had been in a foul mood all night. Every minute felt like a slow boil. He was restless, irritable, completely unable to calm down. He stood by the bed stiffly, remembering the doctor's instructions—apply the ointment to her ankle every thirty minutes for the first day. With a scowl, he crouched down and reached for her foot. Earlier, while the doctor had been working, Simon had stepped out to take a call. His men had finally reported back—those thugs had been handed to the police. They'd claimed the man who hired them wore a black mask… and that he was John. But the description didn't match. Not the face, not the build. Someone had impersonated him. Unfortunately, the payment had been in cash. No bank trail, no calls, no trace.Since he had been outside on the balcony during Lily's treatment, he had never actually seen her foot before. Now, as his hand closed around it, he froze. Now, as his hand closed around it, he froze. It was small. Delicate. Almost impossibly beautiful. She wasn't short—maybe five-five, maybe a little taller—but her feet looked like a size six, at most. Simon stared at the tiny thing in his palm, momentarily thrown off. Compared to his own size forty-four, it looked… unreal. But the warmth, the softness—those were real enough. She didn't wear nail polish, but her nails were neat, naturally smooth, with a faint pink glow under the white. Adorable, almost. His gaze drifted up her legs—long, slender, impossibly fair, like carved jade. The only flaw was the swollen bruise around her ankle. The sight made him frown. "Ugly," he muttered under his breath. Then his tone turned sharp, bitter. "And John still threw Elsa aside again and again for you? He must be blind." He grumbled as he dipped a cotton swab into the ointment and carefully dabbed at her ankle. The sting made her flinch, her foot jerking in his grip. The sudden motion snapped him out of it—only for him to realize he was still holding her. Her skin was porcelain-pale against his. The faint heat seeping from her skin crawled up his arm, lighting up his nerves, burning slow and hot. His pulse kicked. "Lily—don't touch me! Stay the hell away from me!" he barked suddenly. His voice cracked with anger—but underneath it was something else. Panic. Because she wasn't the one clinging to him. It was him—still gripping her foot like a fool. Simon's jaw tightened. His expression darkened, like he'd been stung. Without another word, he jerked his hand away and stormed into the bathroom, scrubbing his hands furiously under the water.When he returned, he stood at the bedside again, his body stiff, his gaze fixed on the wall. He kept telling himself: I wasn't here because I wanted to be. No—I was here because she was on my bed, and I had nowhere else to go. But as time dragged on, his eyes slowly drifted back to her. Her fever had come down a little after the IV, but she was still flushed, her skin glowing faintly in the dim light. Her face looked… surprisingly beautiful. It wasn't the usual coldness or arrogance. No, her face looked soft now, flushed with warmth, like a petal brushed with the color of the sun. There was something undeniably alluring about her at this moment. For the first time, Simon found himself thinking—she didn't look as ugly as he remembered. Her lashes were long and curved, little shadows fluttering against her skin. And just below them— Her lips. Those trembling, red lips.The same ones that had stolen his first kiss in that damn hotel room. Heat shot through him again, pooling behind his ears. He tore his gaze away, only to have it wander back seconds later—like he'd lost control over his own eyes. Then, before he knew it—his hand moved. His fingers brushed her lips. Soft. Warm. Exactly like he remembered. "Lily…" He whispered her name, his voice thick with something he couldn't quite identify. ... Elsa was holed up in the VIP suite of an upscale private hospital, the kind of place that looked more like a five-star resort than anything medical. Her room came with an adjoining suite for guests—tastefully decorated, plush carpets, fresh flowers, soft lighting. John had promised he'd stay with her that night. So of course, he stayed in the next room. After his shower, towel draped over his shoulders, he reached for his phone—only to realize he'd left it in Elsa's room. He headed over to get it back. When he opened the door, Elsa was still awake. She was perched on her bed, phone in hand, a faint smile curving her lips. The call screen was still glowing when he stepped inside. She looked up, feigning surprise. "Oh—John. Lily just called. But she didn't say anything and hung up." The call log was still there. She hadn't even bothered to delete it. John's chest tightened. He grabbed his phone and immediately dialed Lily back. No answer. Once. Twice. Three times. A cold unease crept into his gut. Something felt wrong. He called his men right away, voice clipped and low. "Trace her location. Now." Minutes later, he was already in the car, speeding through the city lights, the night air heavy with tension.When he arrived and learned what had happened—that Lily had been in danger, that Simon had taken her away—he didn't stop to think. He just went. Straight to Simon's place. And the second he burst through the door—he saw red. Lily was there, curled up in Simon's bed. Her hair was loose, her skin pale against the sheets, her breathing uneven, fragile. And Simon—Simon was leaning over her. His hand hovered by her cheek, his finger tracing the curve of her lips, slow and deliberate. The air between them was thick, electric, like he was just a breath away from kissing her. Something inside John snapped. He was usually calm, composed—the kind of man whose temper stayed buried under layers of self-control. But now, jealousy hit him like a lightning strike, white-hot and blinding. Before Simon could even blink, John crossed the room and slammed his fist into his jaw. The sound echoed through the room—a sickening, solid crack. "What the hell do you think you're doing?!" John roared, grabbing Simon by the collar. "Who the hell gave you permission to touch her?!"