It had been a strange, blurry few days. The kind where time slipped like sand through tightly clenched fingers. Danica, who was usually the kind of woman that made boardrooms tremble and competitors sweat through their designer suits, had allowed herself to be doted on. By one man, and one man only.
Alfred.
Who, for some godforsaken reason, had decided to channel his inner Florence Nightingale. Except he was six-foot-three, made entirely of muscle and heartbreak, with a face sculpted by sins, and a voice so deep it could convince a nun to sin twice.
And somehow, against every logical fiber of her being, Danica loved it. Loved him. Loved that he fussed over her, stayed up all night making sure she took her meds, watched trashy movies with her (even though he pretended to hate them), and made her feel so cherished she wanted to punch him for it.
