In His Shadow, in His Bed

(Amelia's POV)

The pain was a dull, constant ache, a reminder of the crash. I lay in the sterile hospital bed, staring at the ceiling, counting the tiny holes in the acoustic tiles. Each one felt like a missing piece of my soul.

The door creaked open. I didn't bother turning, expecting another nurse with more pills or a doctor with more questions.

"Eva? Oh my god, Eva!"

The voice wasn't a nurse's. It was familiar, warm, and laced with a panic that made my heart clench. I turned my head slowly on the stiff pillow.

Sofia Valenti stood in the doorway, her face pale, her usually perfectly styled hair slightly disheveled, as if she'd been running her hands through it. She looked like she'd just flown in from somewhere—a long, expensive coat was draped over her arm, and a designer suitcase stood by the door.

She rushed to my bedside, her eyes wide with horror as she took in the bandages, the IV, my general state of wreckage. "I just got back to the country. I heard you were in an accident. The doctors... they said you were hurt. I was so scared!" Her voice broke on the last word.

Seeing her, my best friend, the one person in this world who felt like family, broke the dam I'd built around my emotions. A sob I didn't know I was holding back escaped my lips. The tears came then, hot and silent, streaming down the sides of my face into my hair.

Sofia didn't hesitate. She sat on the edge of the bed, carefully, and gathered me into a hug. I clung to her, burying my face in the soft wool of her sweater, breathing in the familiar scent of her perfume. It was the smell of safety, of a life before Lorenzo, of a friendship that had somehow survived the poison of his world.

We stayed like that for a long time, until my tears subsided into shaky breaths. She pulled back, her own eyes glistening, and brushed the hair from my damp forehead. "Shhh, it's okay. I'm here now. You're going to be okay."

She fetched a cup of water from the bedside table and held the straw to my lips. I drank, the cool water soothing my raw throat. After I'd settled back, she took my hand, her grip firm.

"Tell me everything," she said, her voice soft but insistent. "And don't you dare leave anything out. How have you really been these past few years? Did my brother... did he treat you well?" She searched my face, her gaze sharp and knowing. "And what about this boyfriend you mentioned in your letters? The one you said made you happy? When do I get to meet him? I need to vet him properly. If he's not good enough for you, I won't allow it."

The questions, so full of innocent concern, were like salt in my wounds. My face must have crumpled, because Sofia's expression shifted from concern to dawning horror.

"Eva?"

"The boyfriend..." I began, my voice a ragged whisper. I looked away from her, out the window at the grey, uncaring sky. "There is no boyfriend. We... we broke up."

Sofia was silent for a moment, processing. "Oh, honey," she finally said, her voice thick with understanding and pity. "I'm so sorry. But you know what? It's for the best. If he couldn't see how amazing you are, he wasn't worth it. There are plenty of other men out there. Better men. I know loads of them. I'll introduce you to all of them!"

Her forced cheerfulness was a well-intentioned lie, and we both knew it. There were no "better men" in our world. There were only men like her brother.

Before I could respond, the hospital room door was shoved open with a force that made the walls vibrate. Lorenzo stood there, his face a thundercloud. His eyes swept over the scene—Sofia on my bed, holding my hand, my tear-streaked face—and his scowl deepened.

"Introduce her to who?" he demanded, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that filled the small room. "Absolutely not. The men you know, Sofia, are all spoiled, frivolous playboys. None of them are suitable."

Sofia immediately bristled, turning on him like a protective lioness. "They are not all playboys! Don't you dare tar everyone with the same brush!" She stood up, facing him, her hands on her hips. "And since when do you get a say in who I set my best friend up with? This is none of your business!"

Hearing this, a flash of pure, unadulterated irritation crossed Lorenzo's face. "I said no, and that's final," he bit out, his control visibly fraying. "Feelings can't be forced. Stop playing matchmaker. You'll only lead her to more disappointment."

"Feelings can't be forced."

The irony of him saying that to me, after everything, was so profound it was almost laughable. A silent, bitter laugh echoed in the hollow cavity of my chest.

I reached out and squeezed Sofia's hand, pulling her attention back to me. I gave her a small, tired shake of my head. "Don't," I tried to convey with my eyes. 'It's not worth it.'

I then looked calmly at Lorenzo. "Sofia was just joking, Mr. Valenti," I said, my voice flat, devoid of the emotion that had been there moments before. "Was there something you needed?"

Seeing that I was stable—alive, breathing, no longer actively dying—Lorenzo seemed to relax a fraction, the immediate crisis averted. He instinctively started to say he'd come to see "me", to check on "me", but the words changed before they left his mouth, replaced by a more convenient, distant truth.

"Nothing important," he said, his gaze flicking away from mine. "Sofia heard about your accident and came straight here from the airport. I'm here to take her home." A brief, almost imperceptible pause. "And to check on the situation."

"The situation." That's what I was. A situation.

"Alright, brother," Sofia said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "I'll be home tonight. You can go now." She made a shooing motion with her hand. "Eva is badly hurt. The last thing she needs is you looming over her and giving her more work."

She practically pushed him out of the room, closing the door firmly behind him and leaning against it with a sigh of exasperation.

The room felt instantly lighter, the oxygen returning.

"God, he's insufferable," she muttered, coming back to my bedside. Her anger faded as she looked at me, replaced by a deep, worried sadness. "Don't mind him. He can be a real ass, but... he does care, in his own twisted way. The nurses told me you were critical when they brought you in. That it was Lorenzo who pulled strings, called in specialists, made sure you got the best care possible. He was here all night."

For a single, fleeting second, his words sparked a tiny, pathetic ember in the ashes of my heart. He had done that? He had fought for my life?

But the clarity returned almost instantly, cold and brutal. Him pulling strings was just him not wanting a messy death on his conscience. It was about control, not care. If it had come down to a choice between my life and Isabella's comfort, I knew with absolute certainty which one he would have chosen.

So, I harbored no more illusions. I offered Sofia a small, bleak smile. "I'm just another asset in his organization. It's his responsibility to keep his assets functional."

Sofia looked like she wanted to argue, but the bleak truth in my eyes stopped her. She sat back down, and we sat in silence for a while, the only sound the steady beep of the heart monitor, a machine keeping time on a heart that was already broken.