The next morning, Leila arrived at the hospital early. Her presence was as loud as her designer outfit. "You’ve done your part, Amelia. Now, step aside. You're just a reminder of things Chris wants to forget."

Amelia didn't argue. She moved to the small waiting room Victor had arranged for her. She had stayed up all night watching over Chris, and exhaustion was finally catching up.

Around noon, a nurse approached her and whispered, "Ms. Tudor, I noticed Ms. Ross taking numerous photos of Mr. Spencer while I was changing his dressings. She mentioned something about 'public relations' and private archives."

Amelia frowned. She hurried toward the ward, only to see Leila leaning dangerously close to Chris’s pale face, as if posing for a portrait of a devoted lover.

"Stop," Amelia said as she walked in.

Leila straightened up, looking entirely unbothered. "This isn't your concern. I’m the one he actually wants to see when he opens his eyes. Your presence might just delay his recovery."

Amelia swallowed the bitterness. "This is a hospital, Leila, not a movie set. If Victor’s people see you treating this room like a photo op, you’ll be escorted out."

Leila gave her a chilly look before turning back to Chris. Amelia took a deep breath and stepped back. Perhaps Leila was right—maybe Chris wouldn't want her to be the first thing he saw.

Days turned into weeks. Chris remained in a deep, unresponsive sleep. One afternoon, Victor arrived with a specialist. "Amelia, this is Dr. Alton King, a close associate of Lucius Howard."

Amelia shook hands with the doctor, a composed man in his thirties. "Thank you for coming, Dr. King."

"It’s no trouble. Lucius spoke highly of your dedication," Alton replied with a professional smile. After a thorough examination, he turned to the family. "Mr. Spencer’s physical injuries are healing well, but his cognitive response is stagnant. You need to talk to him. Stimulate his will to return."

In the following days, whenever the room was quiet, Amelia sat by his bedside.

"Chris, it’s ironic, isn't it?" she murmured one evening. "I spent three years trying to get you to listen to me, and now that you have no choice, I don't know what to say. Please wake up soon. I want to finalize our separation and start my own life. This hospital... it feels like another cage."

She talked about mundane things—the pasta she made in the hospital kitchen, her rehearsals at the restaurant, the sunlight through the window.

Who is speaking? My head... it burns.

In the darkness of his unconsciousness, Chris felt as if he were wandering through a frozen wasteland. But then, a voice—soft, persistent, and hauntingly familiar—began to pull him back.

Amelia?

He tried to reach for the sound. She’s alive? The sea was so cold... how did she survive? He listened as she spoke of her desire to leave him, of her tears hidden under the covers during their marriage, and of her small joys in the kitchen. Every word felt like a needle pricking his pride, but it was also the only light in his darkness.

"You’re handsome, I’ll give you that," he heard her whisper one afternoon. "No wonder Leila is so determined to keep you. You two are a perfect match in many ways. I should have stepped away a long time ago."

Chris felt a surge of irritation. How dare she decide who I belong with?

A while later, he heard her return with someone else. "Mr. Howard, I’ve been following the doctor’s advice, but there’s no change," Amelia sighed.

"Don't be so hard on yourself, Amelia," Lucius Howard’s gentle voice filled the room. "Chris is a stubborn man. He’ll wake up when he’s ready. In the meantime, you need to care for yourself too."

What is Howard doing here? Chris gritted his teeth in his mind. And why is she making him tea? She’s never made tea for me.

The sound of their quiet laughter and the aroma of fresh tea filled the room, fueling a fire in Chris’s chest that finally broke through the gray veil of his coma.