Page 84 of Ruin My Life

NewYork-Presbyterian Hospital.

The room’s atmosphere shifts slightly, like the air’s gone too thin to breathe.

It’s the same hospital where I had my surgery. The same place I was wheeled into after my chest was torn open, ribs cracked, heart stopped.

I don’t recognize her.

Butshemight recognizeme.

Everyone there knew. Even when I was sedated, I could feel them hovering outside my room—nurses whispering in the hallway, interns craning their necks to sneak a glimpse of the miracle girl who survived a bullet through the heart.

The girl who wasn’t supposed to wake up.

Dahlia doesn’t react. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even blink.

If she recognizes me, she doesn’t say a word.

She turns to Chavez, and he straightens under her gaze like a soldier under inspection.

“I’ll take good care of her,” she says gently. “Please give us some privacy.”

Chavez looks dazed for a moment, like he only just remembered he and Dahlia aren’t standing there alone. She lifts a single brow, and it snaps him out of it—he blinks hard, the tips of his ears turning faintly red as he nods and retreats without another word.

The door clicks shut, and Dahlia just sighs like she’s used to leaving men speechless—who am I kidding, ofcourseshe is.

She turns to me, clasping her hands. “Hello, my name is Dahlia,” she says smoothly, her voice all calm professionalism. “I assume your name is not actuallylittle rose, correct?”

“It’s Brie,” I say, hugging my arms across my chest. “And I already told Damon I’m fine. It’s just a little burn.”

Dahlia tilts her head and offers a warm, practiced smile. “May I take a look anyway? Just for my own peace of mind.”

Her tone is gentle but has an authoritative edge. The kind that doesn’t leave room for argument without sounding likeyou’rethe unreasonable one.

I sigh, then nod reluctantly. I rise to my feet and ease my leggings down my hips, biting down on my lip as the fabric scrapes over the burn. I’m still crusted in dried blood and gunpowder, and now that I’m looking, the skin is definitely more inflamed than I’d let myself believe.

Dahlia makes a softtsksound as she crouches, examining my thigh with gentle fingers. “It’s not too bad, but it needs a proper cleaning. Come with me to the tub and I’ll help flush it out before we wrap it up.”

“I can bathe myself,” I say quickly—too quickly.

“Of course,” Dahlia nods without missing a beat. “If that makes you more comfortable.”

I don’t respond. Just move stiffly to my suitcase, trying to shake the heat crawling up my neck. I unzip the top and spread out the mess Damon dumped inside earlier. Most of it’s in a jumbled towel bundle, but I manage to pick out my shampoo, conditioner, and body wash from the chaos.

An old orange pill bottle rolls toward Dahlia—painkillers, left over from my heart surgery. She picks it up, glancing at the label before gently setting it back down like it’s something fragile.

I pretend not to notice.

Grabbing what I need, I slip into the bathroom and shut the door faster than I mean to. My fingers twist the lock tight.

The moment I’m alone, I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding and turn toward the room.

It’smassive.

Too massive. Like a five-star spa dropped into the middle of an apartment.

A wall-length counter stretches along the left side, two bronze-rimmed sinks embedded in glossy black marble. The mirror above it spans the length of the wall, throwing my own pale, blood-streaked reflection back at me.

The shower is sleek and modern, but it’s the bathtub that steals my attention. Positioned directly across from the door, it’s oversized, sunken into the floor like a private oasis. Deep enough to drown in. The kind of tub you could disappear into for hours, heat sinking into your bones, softening everything sharp edge inside you.