Dylan gently called out near his ear, "Boss?" "Emily..." Vincent seemed not to hear Dylan, or maybe he was still in a dream. Yet, even in his unconscious state, his voice was hoarse and grating, accompanied by painful rasping sounds. It was as if every word he uttered caused immense suffering. His vocal cords were still in a fragile state, and he had just been moved to a regular room. Dylan glanced at Emily and, not giving her a chance to respond, decided to stabilize the situation first. "Miranda, the boss fell ill suddenly, and we have some international projects that need attention today. I need to head back to the office as soon as possible. Could you please stay with him for a while? I'll have Steven come over to help." Emily remained silent. She understood what Dylan was doing. He was talking in circles, but the goal was still the same—to get her to stay. As for Steven? He might show up at the hospital door, or even outside the room, but he certainly wouldn’t come inside. Dylan knew exactly how to pick his assistants. Steven was smart, perhaps even more intuitive than Dylan when it came to understanding delicate situations. "Miranda..." Dylan's voice had a pleading edge to it. Emily took a deep breath and spoke up, "Dylan, my current role is simply as a designer sent by Stardream to collaborate on the project. I’m just an employee who’s met the boss a couple of times at most. If I stay here to take care of him, what would people in the company say? You've worked with him for years; it's natural for you to look out for him, and I get it—you want me to stay because he wants me to. But in my current position, it's not appropriate." "Are you still planning to leave?" Dylan asked. "I won’t be staying in the States. Once this project is finished, I’m going back to the UK. I’ve told him that, and he agreed." Dylan frowned, a deep line forming between his brows. "Miranda, forgive me for asking, but did he agree to this yesterday?" "...Yes," Emily confirmed. Dylan nodded, his expression somber. "I think I just figured out why he smoked himself to the point of hemorrhaging." Emily froze. Dylan continued, "I’m sorry, it’s my mistake for not considering things from your perspective. But Miranda, when have you ever looked at things from his perspective?" Emily lifted her gaze, meeting his eyes. It seemed that Dylan had been holding a lot in since the moment he first saw her. Now, with a rare opportunity in which they were alone, the words he'd suppressed for so long were finally bubbling up. "Miranda, I apologize in advance. What I'm about to say may be uncomfortable for you, but I know the only way to solve this is by being open about everything. You’re not someone who likes to express emotions, and neither is Mr. Norman. So let me be the bad guy here." Dylan took a deep breath, steeling himself. "Three years ago, that fire wasn’t an accident—it was arson. I was the one who investigated it. Penelope and Logan Morgan were involved. Penelope lured Mr. Norman downstairs while Logan set the fire. That was their plan." Emily shook her head. "No, Dylan, the arsonist wasn't Logan—it was a woman." "A woman?" Dylan looked bewildered. "Did you see her?" Emily shook her head again. "When the fire started, the power went out at the same time. It was chaotic. I don’t remember clearly if someone deliberately cut the power or if it was the fire that caused it. I was trying to use the emergency exit, but I was heavily pregnant—seven months along—and moving slowly. Worse, there was a woman who attacked me during the chaos." Dylan was shocked, his face growing pale. "So, you mean to say, besides Logan, there was another woman involved?" "I don’t know for sure," Emily replied. "You said we should be open, so I'm telling you everything I know. I never saw Logan. Whether he was there or set the fire and escaped afterward, only you would know. But the person who attacked me was definitely a woman. She was shorter than me, and her target was clear—my belly. I was seven months pregnant at the time, and after she attacked me, the pain was so bad that I couldn’t stand." "I’ll look into it. I’ll pull up all the old files from three years ago and get to the bottom of this," Dylan assured her, his determination evident. Emily sighed softly, "Dylan, let me be honest with you. I don’t hate him. Not anymore. Once I learned that he rushed into the fire to save me, even at the cost of his face and voice, all my hatred disappeared. But losing my baby was too painful, and I don’t want to go back to that part of my life. Every time I think about it, it feels like I’ll never be able to move on. He, the Hilton, the people and places from back then—I don’t want to see any of it." This time, it was Dylan who fell silent. Emily continued, "As for the project, I’ll coordinate with Ken. You can tell me if there’s anything else, and I’ll pass it on. But please don’t force me to stay here. Not only is it inappropriate, but it also makes me feel deeply uncomfortable.""I'm sorry..." Dylan bowed his head. "It's okay. You haven't done anything wrong. You've always been an excellent assistant. Having you by his side is his good fortune," Emily gave a weary smile. "Look at me—I’m still in my bathrobe. It’s night now, but come daylight, it’ll be embarrassing. I need to go back to change, then get to the office. I’ll sort things out with Ken and Daniel; you don’t need to worry. Just take care of him." With that, she turned and left the hospital room, her steps quick and purposeful. "Miranda..." "Dylan, don't follow her..." Dylan was startled, turning back quickly. "Mr. Norman, you're awake?" Vincent's eyes were half-open, and he shook his head slowly. His voice was too damaged to speak. Every attempt felt like his vocal cords were being torn apart. "I'll get the nurse..." ... Emily returned to her hotel by taxi, showered, dressed, and hurriedly took a cab to the company. She arrived just in time, two minutes before being officially late. As she entered the office, Ken was stirring instant coffee, smiling at her. "Morning, Miranda. Want a cup?" Emily returned his smile politely. "Good morning, no thanks." Ken leaned against her desk, stirring the steaming coffee, clicking his tongue. "I guess I just don’t have good taste. People say drip coffee is classy, but I find instant tastes just fine." Emily chuckled. "To each their own. There's no such thing as classy or not—whatever you like best is the best."