HIS

Chapter 8

Olivia's Pov

Was I dreaming? There was that persistent beeping... sharp, rhythmic, and endless. My head throbbed.

When I finally managed to open my eyes, I was greeted by sterile white walls—definitely not my apartment. A hospital, maybe? The brightness made me squint, and everything felt slightly out of focus.

I turned my head and spotted someone slouched in a chair nearby, their gaze locked on a phone. Even with the haze clouding my vision, I could almost feel who it was.

"Domenico?" I croaked, my voice raw.

His head snapped up instantly, eyes meeting mine with the kind of intensity that said he'd been waiting.

"Where... where am I?" I murmured, confusion pressing heavier than the pounding in my skull.

"At my base. In the infirmary," he said calmly, like it was just another day in his world. "You were passed out when I found you at your apartment... two days ago."

My eyes widened. Two days?
"What? Two days? Why?" I gasped. "The last thing I remember, I was in my room... and my wrist..."

"You had a blood infection," he explained, matter-of-fact. "It hadn't been properly treated. We put you on antibiotics—your body went into shock, that's why you've been out. The doctor should clear you in a few minutes."

I looked away. "Thank you," I muttered, too embarrassed to meet his gaze. I should've gone to a hospital. I shouldn't have let it get this bad. Now I'd pulled other people into my mess.

Then I noticed something strange—I wasn't wearing what I had on before. Instead of my NYU top and leggings, I had on my own pajamas. I frowned.

"Who... who changed me?" I asked quietly.

He rubbed the back of his neck, a soft flush creeping into his cheeks. So he does blush, I thought. Guess he's not all steel and stone after all.

"You were unconscious. I packed your things and brought you here—but I didn't change you," he said. "The female doctor did. And no, I didn't see you naked, if that's what you're wondering. I also had your locks changed... someone could've broken in easily. Took me less than a minute."

I stared at him, mouth slightly agape, thrown by how casually he admitted to picking my lock—like it was just another line in a normal conversation. Still, I was grateful. Instead of scolding him, I shut my mouth and let it go.

"Thank you for saving me," I said earnestly. "I really appreciate it. How much do I owe you?"

"Nothing," he replied without hesitation.

"What about the medical costs?" I pressed gently. "I don't believe in accepting things for free."

He paused, the silence stretching long enough to feel intentional. Then finally, he spoke.

"You're my close friend, right?"

That made me frown. Close friend? This was supposed to be a pretend arrangement—so what was he trying to say?

He caught the confusion in my face and kept going, unfazed.
"This building—and everything inside it—is mine, so no charge. And besides, we're close friends," he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "I also need a date for the charity gala next month. I'd like my fake close friend to do me that favor."

It was delivered with the same casual tone someone might use to comment on the weather.

"You don't have anyone else to take with you?" I shot back.