The violent, jagged rhythm of Diana’s breathing slowly began to decelerate, evening out into long, shuddering exhales against Ryan’s stomach.

The penthouse living room remained suffocatingly quiet, insulated from the freezing rain lashing the floor-to-ceiling windows.

The only sounds were the heavy, ambient hum of the HVAC system and the faint, rhythmic ticking of the antique clock in the hallway.

Ryan didn’t move. He kept his hand firmly on the back of Diana’s head, anchoring her to the solid, unyielding mass of his chest.

He felt the microscopic tremors wrecking her muscles, the biological aftermath of surviving near death.

Zara stood a few feet away, her bare feet silent against the Persian rug. She looked at the ruined emerald-green evening gown.

The heavy silk was torn, dusted with pulverized safety glass that glittered maliciously in the dim light. The dark, oxidized stain of the driver’s blood painted a chaotic smear across Diana’s ribs. 𝚏𝗿𝗲𝐞𝚠𝕖𝐛𝗻𝗼𝐯𝕖𝚕.𝚌𝗼𝗺

"She needs to get out of that dress," Zara said, her voice dropping into a low, quiet cadence that demanded no argument. "The glass is cutting into her skin every time she shivers."

Ryan looked up, meeting Zara’s dark eyes.

The competitive, feral hostility that usually defined their shared airspace was entirely absent. Zara wasn’t looking at a rival; she was looking at a casualty of the war Ryan had brought to their doorstep.

"Start the water," Ryan told her.

Zara nodded. She turned and walked swiftly down the hall toward the master bathroom.

Ryan looked down at the venture capitalist. "Diana. Stand up."

Diana’s fingers, which had been gripping his shirt with desperate, white-knuckled force, slowly uncurled.

She pushed herself back, her heels scraping awkwardly against the rug. Her legs wobbled, devoid of any structural integrity.

Ryan caught her by the waist, bearing her weight effortlessly.

He walked her down the corridor.

The master bathroom was already thick with heavy, white steam. The massive walk-in marble shower roared, the rainfall head dumping a cascade of hot water against the dark stone.

Zara stood by the vanity, pulling thick, heated towels from the warming rack. She had placed a pile of folded clothes on the edge of the marble sink – a pair of her own loose, grey sweatpants and a heavy cashmere sweater.

Ryan guided Diana into the center of the bathroom. The oppressive heat of the steam instantly flushed the pale, shocked color from her cheeks.

"Arms up," Ryan murmured.

Diana didn’t hesitate.

The woman who commanded boardrooms and dictated nine-figure corporate mergers raised her arms with the absolute, unquestioning obedience of a child.

Ryan unzipped the ruined emerald gown.

The zipper snagged on a shard of embedded glass, and he ripped it past the fabric without a second thought. The heavy silk pooled around her ankles, revealing a simple, black lace bra and matching panties.

He didn’t look at her with the predatory, consuming hunger he usually reserved for her exposure.

His eyes were entirely clinical, cataloging the physical damage.

Her pale skin was littered with tiny, shallow cuts from the pulverized window pane, mixing with the dark smear of blood on her side.

He unhooked her bra, tossing it aside, and pulled the lace panties down her legs.

Diana stood entirely bare in the harsh bathroom light, shivering violently despite the steam.

She wrapped her arms around her chest, looking down at the marble floor, completely stripped of her armor.

"Get in," Ryan said, guiding her by the elbow into the massive glass enclosure.

The hot water hit her skin, washing away the cold terror of the street. Diana gasped, leaning her forehead against the dark stone wall.

The water ran pink down the drain, carrying away the driver’s blood, the dirt, and the microscopic fragments of glass.

Ryan didn’t leave her alone. He stripped off his overcoat, his bespoke suit jacket, and his shirt, kicking off his boots.

He stepped into the rainfall wearing only his dark slacks, completely ignoring the hot water soaking through the expensive wool.

He picked up a heavy bar of soap, lathering it between his calloused palms.

He placed his hands on her shoulders, turning her gently to face him.

Diana kept her eyes squeezed tightly shut, her shoulders shaking under his touch.

Ryan washed her.

He moved with slow, methodical precision.

He dragged his soapy hands over her collarbones, down her arms, meticulously clearing away the grit and the soot of the explosive ambush.

He washed the dried blood from her ribs, his thumbs pressing firmly against her skin, offering a heavy, grounding friction that demanded her nervous system recognize she was safe.

He stepped closer, tilting her head back. He worked his fingers into the ruined, tangled mess of her immaculate blowout, massaging the hot water and shampoo deep into her scalp.

Diana let out a broken, ragged exhale.

The sheer, overwhelming intimacy of the act—Ryan washing the blood off her skin—bypassed her trauma entirely. Her hands reached out blindly, her wet fingers gripping his waist, anchoring herself to the immovable muscle of his abdomen.

"You’re safe," Ryan murmured, the rumble of his voice carrying over the rushing water. He rinsed the soap from her hair, his hand sliding down to cup the nape of her neck. "It’s gone, Diana. I washed it off."

She opened her eyes, looking up at him through the heavy curtain of wet hair.

The terror was receding, replaced by a profound, agonizingly deep devotion.

Ryan turned off the heavy steel valve. The sudden silence in the bathroom was deafening.

He stepped out of the enclosure, taking a massive, heated towel from Zara. He wrapped it securely around Diana’s shivering shoulders, pulling the thick cotton tight.

Zara stepped forward, holding out the folded cashmere sweater and sweatpants.

"Here. Put these on. They’re going to be a little long, but they’re warm."

Diana took the clothes, her hands still trembling slightly.

"Thank you," Diana whispered, her voice raw and hoarse.

"Don’t mention it," Zara said softly. She didn’t smile, but her dark eyes were stripped of any malice. "Get dressed. I made tea."