After I Saved My Boyfriend, He Chose My Half-Sister

The Upper East Side Recovery Center smelled like rubbing alcohol and lemon cleaner.

Every morning started at seven sharp. My physical therapist, Julian Thorne, would wheel me into the main gym. The room was huge, with high ceilings, tall mirrors, and blue rubber mats covering the floor. In the center sat two long rows of steel parallel bars.

"Weight-bearing today, Coraline," Julian said on my third day. "Just five seconds on your feet."

My legs didn't feel like legs anymore. They felt like heavy bags of wet sand.

I reached out and grabbed the cold metal bars. My palms were slick with sweat.

"On three," Julian said, standing right beside me. "One, two, three. Up."

I pulled with everything I had in my upper body. My shoulders screamed. My knuckles turned white against the steel. I pushed down, trying to force my feet to plant flat against the rubber floor.

Pain shot up my legs like a jolt of raw electricity. It started in my shattered shins and ripped into my hips. It was hot, sharp, and blinding. My nerve endings felt like exposed wires.

Then my arms gave out.

My grip slipped off the metal. My knees folded like wet paper, and I crashed down onto the blue mat.

The heavy metal braces on my legs clattered against the floor.

"It's okay," Julian said quickly, bending down to help me. "That's enough for today. We try again tomorrow."

I didn't answer. I just stared at my useless feet, breathing hard.

The days were brutal, but the nights were worse.

At night, the private room was dead quiet. The phantom pain always crept in around midnight. My left foot, which was completely numb during the day, felt like it was trapped in a furnace. The surgical staples pulled at my skin every time I tried to turn over.

When the ache became too much to bear, I pulled the pillow over my face.

I bit down on the cotton. I screamed into the feathers until my lungs burned and my throat went raw. I let out all the rage, all the humiliation, and every memory of Jasper holding Lilah in my silk robe.

I gave myself ten minutes. Never more.

The moment I heard the squeak of the night nurse's cart in the hallway, I stopped.

I pulled the pillow away. I used the corner of the white sheet to scrub my face clean. I smoothed my hair back with my fingers. I sat up straight in the hospital bed, resting my hands neatly on my lap.

The door clicked open. A nurse poked her head inside.

"Everything alright in here, Miss Stewart?" she asked softly.

"Everything is fine, thank you," I said. My voice was calm and steady.

I never let them see a single tear. Jasper thought I was ruined. My parents thought I was broken beyond repair. Lilah thought she had taken my entire life. I refused to let anyone in this building see me weak.

Two weeks in, the rain pounded against the gym’s floor-to-ceiling windows.

Julian had set the parallel bars slightly wider. Sweat stung my eyes. My gray tank top was soaked through.

"Three steps today, Coraline," Julian urged. "You have the strength. Just look straight ahead."

I gripped the steel bars. I dragged myself upright. My left knee locked in place, trembling violently under my weight.

I took one small, shuffling step forward.

A knife of pain tore straight through my pulverized kneecap. My vision blurred around the edges. My elbows buckled without warning.

I hit the floor with a sickening thud.

The breath was knocked completely out of my lungs. The room spun.

"Coraline!" Julian rushed forward, reaching down for my arm. "Don't move, let me check the pins—"

A sharp, low whir cut him off.

A matte-black wheelchair rolled right past Julian, stopping just inches from where I lay on the floor.

I blinked through the sweat and looked up.

The man in the chair had broad, powerful shoulders and thick, dark hair. His jaw was square and clenched tight. He wore a simple black athletic shirt and tailored gym pants that hid his lower body. His dark eyes were cold, sharp, and completely merciless.

It was Titus West.

Everyone in the facility knew his name. He was a ruthless hedge-fund titan and a former amateur racer. A sabotage crash at one hundred and sixty miles per hour had crippled him, and he hated the world for it. He shouted at the doctors. He fired three therapists in his first week. He was the most feared, hostile patient in the entire center.

Right now, he was looking down at me as if I were a piece of trash dropped on his sidewalk.

"If you're going to fall, at least do it quietly," Titus said. His voice was deep, rough, and flat. "Some of us are trying to focus."

Julian frowned, stepping up. "Mr. West, please back up. She just took a bad fall—"

"I don't care," Titus cut in smoothly. "She's making noise. It's distracting."

A spark of pure, hot fury ignited in the center of my chest.

For two weeks, everyone had treated me with soft voices and pitying glances. Jasper had looked at me with disgust. The nurses looked at me with sorrow.

This man looked at me like an obstacle.

I didn't look down. I tilted my chin straight up, locking my eyes with his.

"Move your chair," I said.

Titus raised one dark eyebrow. A faint, mocking smirk touched the corner of his lips. "What did you say?"

"Move your chair," I repeated, louder this time. My voice didn't waver even a little bit. "You're blocking my bar."

Titus didn't move an inch. He just stared at me, his cold eyes narrowing.

I broke eye contact. I reached up and grabbed the steel bar above my head.

Pain screamed through my hips, but I didn't care. I dug my fingers into the metal. The muscles in my arms corded and strained. Veins stood out on my neck. I bit my lower lip until I tasted the sharp, metallic tang of blood.

With a low, guttural breath, I dragged my dead weight off the floor.

My feet scraped against the blue mat. My knee brace clicked into place. I locked my elbows with a snap.

I stood.

My whole body was shaking, but I didn't fall. I held the bar, took a deep breath, and looked Titus West dead in the eye.

"Done," I said.