"You two, go with him." Hugo directed two of his men, his voice tight. "Don't let him out of your sight." He then produced a set of steel restraints and secured Zane to the heavy door frame. With that done, the adrenaline seemed to drain from him completely. He slumped to the floor, his face ashen, a tremor running through him. Hugo's hands shook slightly as he pulled a cigarette from his pocket and lit it. He took a long drag, the smoke curling into the tense air, then lifted his gaze to Zane, who looked equally shattered. His voice was rough, strained. "Were you telling the truth just now, or was that crap?" Zane didn't look at him. He just stared blankly out the door, as if waiting for someone. "I wish more than anyone that it were a lie," Zane whispered, his voice hollow. "Really?" Hugo let out a short, sharp laugh that sounded like shattering glass. Silence fell between them again, broken only by the faint, rhythmic glow of Hugo's cigarette tip, marking the frantic beats of his own heart. The ember burned down, a tiny, dying star in the gloom, until only a stub remained. Suddenly, Hugo stood up. In one fluid, brutal motion, his left hand clamped over Zane's mouth and nose—cutting off any sound before it could form—while the thumb of his right hand ground the still-smoldering cigarette end into the back of Zane's hand. Hiss— A faint, sickening sizzle, like flesh kissing flame. As the last ember died, Hugo leaned in, his lips close to Zane's ear, his voice a venomous, trembling whisper. "Jethro was right. Trash like you doesn't deserve her." ...The car sped to a halt at the cliff's edge. The two guards Zane had hired stood with their heads bowed, one of them pointing a trembling finger. "Here. It was right here she jumped." Before the words had fully left his mouth, one of Jethro's men kicked his legs out from under him, forcing him to kneel facing the precipice. Jethro, his eyes bloodshot, ran the last few steps to the edge. The sight of the churning, white-capped waves far below struck him like a physical blow, a suffocating pressure in his chest. He tore off his jacket and threw it at the large, sunglass-wearing man. The man recoiled in alarm and grabbed Jethro's arm. "Mr. Blackwood! I've already called the local professional rescue team. They're on their way. Please, wait!" Jethro shook him off, his voice raw. "I can't wait another second." With that, he pushed past the stunned man and leapt from the cliff. The impact sent a plume of water shooting high into the air.The bodyguard stood frozen, stunned. He'd never seen love run this deep. An hour later, Hugo arrived with the professional search and rescue team. He scanned the area, his heart sinking when he didn't see Jethro. "Where is he?" The large bodyguard sighed heavily and pointed to the cliff. "He jumped." Hugo's brow furrowed. "How long ago?" "Over an hour." The rescue team leader's eyes widened in alarm, and he immediately began barking orders, mobilizing his people. Hugo stood rooted to the spot, trying to process it. He stared at the vast, indifferent sea, a sharp pang of pain lancing through him. He couldn't help wondering—if he were Jethro, would he have the guts to jump? The sun climbed higher, its warm light bathing everyone. For Hugo, the warmth felt like a mockery. The longer they waited, the colder the dread in his gut became. An hour. Why is there still no sign? Suddenly, a shout rose from below. "We've got him! We found him!" Relief, sharp and sudden, flooded Hugo. The heavy stone in his chest seemed to dissolve. But as he looked down at the rescue boat drawing closer, his hope curdled. On the deck stood only Jethro, a solitary, sodden figure. His back was to them, his posture one of utter desolation as he stared out at the empty horizon. Where's Darcy? Did they not find her? The pain in Hugo's chest tightened again, sharper this time. The boat reached the shore. Jethro climbed out, his hair plastered to his skull, his clothes dripping. He moved in silence, a man carved from ice and exhaustion. Up close, his face was a mask of bleak numbness.The result was written plainly in his eyes. Hugo couldn't bring himself to ask. Jethro mechanically pulled on the dry jacket someone handed him. His gaze fixed on some distant point, he spoke, his voice flat but carrying an unnerving conviction, "She's alive. She has to be. Otherwise—" Otherwise, a body would have surfaced by now. He didn't say it. He didn't need to. Hugo understood. Hugo didn't know what to say. He swallowed his own grief, forcing out words meant to comfort them both. "She's a strong swimmer. Tougher than most. She'll be okay." The head of the rescue team opened his mouth, perhaps to say that this was the open sea, that survival odds were slim, that they rarely found people alive in these waters. But seeing the raw anguish on the two men's faces, he thought better of it and remained silent. They had suffered enough. Long lashes trembled like fans. A pair of clear, watery eyes slowly opened.A stark white ceiling. Blue-striped hospital gown. The faint, antiseptic scent of disinfectant. Darcy's mind sluggishly connected the dots. Hospital. "You're awake?" A nurse approached, helping her sit up, then checked her temperature with a digital thermometer. "Thank goodness. Your fever's finally broken." Darcy stared at her blankly. She raised a hand and touched her own forehead. She'd had a fever? From what? And where was this? How did she get here? The nurse waved a hand gently in front of her face. "Miss? Can you see me? Hear me? Oh, I hope you're not blind or deaf." Darcy blinked, her large eyes still clouded with confusion. She nodded slowly. "I can see you. I can hear you. But... where am I?"