The Billionaire Boyfriend Begged for Another Chance

Westbrook Rehabilitation Center was the most expensive private facility in the city.

Locked down, access-controlled. Without family consent, not even a fly got out.

Julian actually delivered me there.

While we were processing the intake paperwork, Sienna stood at his shoulder.

She wore a tailored designer suit and four-inch stilettos, and she moved like she'd been shot in a perfume commercial.

Once upon a time, I had been the most luminous swan under a stage light, bringing down the house with a single pointe.

Now I sat in a chair like a broken doll.

"Miss Ellsworth, this place will suit you beautifully." Sienna stepped forward and looked down at me. "Julian went to so much trouble to arrange the best suite. Really."

She put a small, deliberate weight on his name—like a claim.

I looked at her, cold.

"You don't need to stake your claim in front of me. I don't rifle through trash I've thrown out."

Sienna's color changed. Then she pressed her fingers to her mouth and laughed, playful.

"Such a sharp tongue. A shame. All that fight doesn't change the fact you can't stand up."

"You—" My hands went white on the armrests of the chair.

Julian stepped between us.

"Enough, Sienna. Step out."

Sienna pushed out a little pout. "Julian, I'm only worried about Miss Ellsworth—"

"Out."

Sienna stamped her heel and left.

The room emptied down to just me and him.

The air was so heavy it was hard to breathe.

He crossed the room, crouched, reached toward my leg.

"Dr. Calloway here is the best rehabilitation specialist in the country. He's going to—"

I jerked the chair back, hard, out of reach.

"Is the performance over? If it's over, leave."

His eyes dimmed. He stood.

"I know you hate me. But your condition can't wait. Cooperate with the treatment."

I gave one dry laugh.

"I'm not your problem anymore. Go worry about your new girl, Mr. CEO."

He looked at me for a long moment, then turned for the door.

"I'll be here once a week to see you."

"Don't bother. I don't want to look at your hypocrite face."

I cut him off without mercy.

The door closed.

I sat alone in that big, cold suite, watched the gray sky through the window, and finally let the tears come.

Then I pulled out my phone and called Dr. Calloway.

"Dr. Calloway. That high-risk experimental nerve bypass you mentioned last time—I want to do it."

There was a beat of silence.

"Clara. That procedure has a success rate under ten percent. If it fails, you could be brain-dead on the table. Are you sure you've thought this through?"

I looked at my own legs, which had forgotten they were part of me.

"I'm sure. I'd rather gamble than keep existing like this."

"Even if I die on the table, at least I'll go with some dignity."