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I came back to myself.

Julian hadn't answered my request yet — maybe he'd drifted off and missed it, or maybe he was turning something else over in his mind.

The car was quiet.

Then I heard it: a dripping sound.

Strange. A car this fine, leaking in the rain?

I looked around, puzzled — and my gaze landed on Julian's wrist.

His slender, strong wrist, wrapped in a dark tie. Blood was threading its way down from beneath the fabric, drop by drop, falling onto the seat between us.

My voice shot out before I could think: "Julian — you're hurt?"

His expression was too calm. The car too dim.

I hadn't noticed until now: his face was chalk-white, and he'd lost far more blood than I'd realized.

"Hospital. We need to go to a hospital. Julian — hospital, now—"

A twenty-eight-year-old man is more stubborn than an eighteen-year-old boy. I raised my voice; Julian finally turned his head and lifted an eyebrow.

"Home first."

"I'm not going back to the Harrington estate—"

A pause. Then, more gently: "My apartment. Not the estate." His voice softened. "Don't be scared, Ivy."

Maybe the years had worn the old bitterness down. Because he'd called me by my name — my real name, in that quiet, steadying way — and for a moment, I didn't recognize the tone at all.

I thought of something and asked: "Are you married? Is it... Serena?"

His expression went cold instantly.