Chapter Three

Chris stirred with a low moan, his eyelids fluttering open to a harsh glare. White ceiling. Blinding fluorescent lights. The sting of antiseptic filled his nose. Then—pain. A jolt shot from his wrist up his arm, leaving it numb, heavy as dead weight.

Chris grunted. He snapped his eyes open and lifted his hand.

A drip—

Chris shot upright, only for a curse to escape his lips as his skull pounded, his body aching with every movement. His left arm remained leaden, an anchor dragging him down. His gaze dropped to his wrist. An IV line was taped to his skin. The realization settled in. He was wearing a hospital gown—the dull blue of a patient’s uniform.

For how long—?

Disbelief churned in his chest. He exhaled sharply and pressed his fingers to his temples, wincing as pain pulsed through his head, a tight, vice-like grip around his skull.

Then, it came back to him.

Collapsing beside his bed. His phone slipping from his grasp. That eerie, unreal smoke curling around him, stealing the air from his lungs, suffocating him.

His heart clenched—empty, hollow, like something had been ripped from him. His jaw tensed as he squeezed his eyes shut, inhaling slowly, then exhaling through gritted teeth.

“You don’t have a choice. There’s no way you can handle the project alone in your condition. Three months of intense work—without help? It’s impossible.”

Chris’ hands balled into fists as he recalled Alex’s word. Tension carved deep lines into his brow, his chest burning with frustration. He had chased this dream for so long. After his father’s death, he had vowed—sworn—that he would make his father’s dream a reality. The international exhibition in London.

As a boy, he had watched his father sit in front of the TV or his laptop, his eyes shimmering with longing as he watched exhibitions unfold on the screen. His father had lived for his paintings, pouring his soul into every stroke, losing himself in the canvas night after night. Chris had inherited that same passion, had fallen in love with the feel of a brush in his hand, the thrill of blending colours, the quiet focus that came with creating something meaningful.

But death had stolen his father away—ripping his dream from his grasp.

The memory remained sharp, vivid, as though it had happened just yesterday.

He had called for his father. No answer. Instead, his uncle had appeared at the top of the staircase, his eyes glistening with unshed tears, his lips trembling like leaves caught in a storm.

“Steven...” His uncle’s voice had cracked. ”Your... your parents had an accident.”

It had shattered him. Even now, he felt it—that same cold numbness crawling over his

skin, raising the hairs on his arms like a chilling wind.

That day, at his father’s grave, he had made a vow.

I promised him.

Chris exhaled shakily, his heavy-lidded eyes settling on the IV drip.

I’ve found the answer.

A bitter smile ghosted across his lips.

Why? He recalled Alex’s question.

He had spent his life chasing nothing but his father’s dream, with nothing else to live for beyond that pursuit. Once the exhibition in London was complete—once the company

gained the international recognition his father had always longed for—what would be left?

Nothing.

That was why he had made his decision.

After the London exhibition, he would sell the company to the government. The money, the properties—everything—would go to the orphanage. Chris inhaled deeply, his shoulders loosening, his mind oddly at peace. The weight he had carried for so long felt... lighter.

Finally— I’ll rest in peace once the exhibition is over.

Three months.

That was all he needed. Three months of work.

Just endure, Christen. He took in a deep breath.

The door creaked open. Footsteps padded toward the bed. A tray landed on the bedside table with a soft thud. A familiar scent drifted through the air.

The Almond scent.

Alex.

“You have a letter.” Alex’s voice was calm, steady. “From your uncle,” he added.

Chris smirked. “Why did he send me a letter?”

Alex hesitated. “I think he’s worried about you.” A pause. “And... I heard he’s sick. Suffering from Cancer.”

He placed the letter beside the tray and studied Chris for a moment. A slow, knowing smile curved his lips.

“So,” he murmured, sinking into the plastic chair, his piercing gaze locked onto Chris. “Have you finally decided?”

“Just three months,” Chris didn’t open his eyes. “And I’m not letting anyone invade my privacy. The assistant will only be here to help with the exhibition preparations. That’s all.”

Alex arched a brow, tilting his head slightly.

“Is that all, Christen?” He sighed, rubbing his hands over his thighs before leaning forward. “You get your own meals. You buy your own groceries. You don’t let staff manage your emails, your schedules, your paintings.” Alex shook his head.

“You don’t even have a maid and refuse to let anyone into your house.” He leaned back, arms crossed. “So tell me... what exactly will this assistant be helping you with?”

“Scheduling. Emails. Meeting. Travel plans.” Chris’ voice was clipped, firm. He opened his eyes and looked straight at Alex. “Nothing more. She won’t interfere with my personal life. She will be a work assistant.”

“She should be assisting with your paintings as well.”

Chris’ expression hardened. His jaw clenched. “I don’t want anyone in my house.” His tone was cold, final. “That’s my decision.”

Alex pressed his lips together, nodding slightly. “Fine.” He shrugged. Then, after a beat, his eyes sharpened. “And if you change your mind about the surgery—”

Chris cut him off.

“I’ve made my decision, doctor Alexander.” He lifted his chin, icy eyes unwavering.

“My answer is no.”

Alex blinked twice, then smirked. Amusement flickered in his gaze.

“It’s your decision.”

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