Chapter 15 Must Leave
Percy lay in bed, his demands echoing off the sterile walls. Every shout, every whine had one purpose—to bend Quinley to his will.
She stood unmoved, a statue against his storm.
"Mr. Thomas," she said with practiced patience, "please try to bear it. The doctor said once your injuries heal, the pain will stop."
Empty words—a meaningless platitude with zero comfort to offer. Yet she delivered them with such convincing concern, eyes wide with apparent worry, that anyone else might have been fooled.
Percy wasn't. He rolled his eyes in disgust. "I can't bear it!"
"What should we do then?" Quinley asked. "Should I... get the doctor?"
"I don't want a doctor!" he snapped. "I want you on your knees begging for forgiveness!"
Another trap laid, another trap avoided. Instead of taking his bait, Quinley slipped from the room and returned moments later with an actual doctor in tow.
Percy's face contorted with rage. "Who the fuck told you to call him? You stupid bitch—are you trying to piss me off?"
"Doctor, I'm so sorry," Quinley said, her voice gentle. "He's not usually like this."
She lowered her voice to a theatrical whisper. "Could you examine him thoroughly? I'm worried his brain might have been damaged in the attack."
"Get out! Don't touch me!" Percy kicked wildly as the doctor approached, his legs tangling in the sheets. "Quinley, you worthless slut! What did you just say?"
She quickly pulled the doctor from the room while Percy continued to rage inside, howling like a wounded animal.
The doctor shook his head, his frown deepening with each outburst from behind the door.
Quinley's eyes reddened with what appeared to be genuine distress. "Thank you for your help, doctor."
He nodded grimly.
Within minutes, a team of orderlies entered Percy's room. The shouting intensified, then abruptly stopped.
When the door opened again, Percy was being wheeled out, strapped to the gurney.
"Where are you taking me?" he demanded, struggling uselessly against the restraints.
Quinley stood waiting at the entrance to the examination room, her face a mask of concern.
"Mr. Thomas, we just need to run some tests. It won't take long."
Something in her expression made Percy suspicious. "If you're playing games with me, I swear I'll fucking destroy you—"
The doors swung shut, cutting off his threat.
Thirty minutes later, he emerged—sedated, silent, and utterly transformed.
The diagnosis was unexpected: severe bipolar disorder with uncontrolled manic episodes.
The doctor's prescription pad filled with medications, all designed to quiet the storm in Percy's mind.
---
At eight that evening, Percy's eyes fluttered open, the sedatives wearing thin.
"What did you do to me?" His gaze found Quinley, but the fire was gone—replaced by a vacant stare that made him seem decades older.
Quinley found this new version of Percy strange but far safer. She pulled her chair closer to his bedside.
"You're sick," she said simply, pointing to his head. "Quite seriously. But the doctor says with proper treatment, recovery is possible."
"I'm not sick," Percy protested, but the words held no conviction.
The olanzapine they'd given him worked its magic—excellent for bipolar disorder, even better for rendering fierce men docile.
After just a few sentences, his eyelids grew heavy, fighting a battle they were destined to lose.
Before sleep claimed him, Quinley decided to resolve their conflict once and for all.
"Mr. Thomas," she began, choosing her words carefully, "enemies should make peace, not war. We're just strangers crossing paths—I have no desire to climb above my station, and you shouldn't lower yours. Let's simply forget each other."
Even to her own ears, the words sounded rehearsed, but they were necessary.
"In your dreams," Percy mumbled, the threat diluted by his drug-weakened voice.
Quinley pulled a card from her purse and placed it on his bedside table. "This contains all my savings. My sincerity is genuine, Mr. Thomas. Do what you will with it."
She rose and walked toward the door. "If you want revenge, take it up with the person who actually hurt you."
Quinley was certain he wouldn't have the courage.
But Percy, stubborn even in his sedated state, whispered a single word as she left: "You."
His voice was too faint for Quinley to hear.
Tomorrow she would leave Rosewood City. Percy Thomas and his petty grievances would become someone else's problem.
Night had fallen completely by the time she left the hospital. The air had turned cool, carrying the promise of autumn.
Head down and lost in thought, Quinley walked toward the street corner when a shadow detached itself from the darkness.
Lucas materialized before her, dressed entirely in black, his expression carved from stone.
Quinley startled. "What are you doing here?"
"Mr. Jennings wants to see you." His tone left no room for refusal. Without waiting for a response, he turned and walked away.
Quinley's heart sank, but her feet followed. After turning two corners, she spotted the Maybach—a sleek predator lurking in the shadows of overhanging trees.
Its windows were tightly shut, the car's presence more commanding than any spoken order.
Lucas gestured toward it. "Mr. Jennings is waiting inside. Don't keep him waiting."
Quinley nodded slightly, her composure a fragile thing.
With each step toward the Maybach, her heartbeat accelerated. By the time she reached the car, she could hear her pulse in her ears.
"Mr. Jennings," she said, stopping deliberately outside the door.
"Get in." Zachary's voice cut through the barrier between them, sharp as winter ice.
"No, thank you." Two simple words of refusal.
The temperature seemed to plummet instantly, both inside and outside the car. Even through metal and glass, Quinley could feel the waves of displeasure radiating from within.
"Thank you for your help today," she continued, determined to say what she came to say.
She'd already thanked Lucas, but since he had acted on Zachary's orders, propriety demanded she express gratitude directly.
Zachary didn't respond.
Exactly as she expected.
Quinley exhaled softly before continuing, "I came to say goodbye. I'm leaving tomorrow."
"Where to?" The question came quickly—too quickly for someone who claimed indifference.
"Novaria."
"For how long?" Zachary pressed, abandoning any pretense of casual inquiry.
Quinley felt the weight of invisible chains. Sylvia wanted her gone, removed as an obstacle between Zachary and Alicia.
If she didn't comply with Sylvia's wishes, she would have nowhere to stand, no ground to call her own.
"A very long time," she answered, the vagueness deliberate.
Silence stretched between them—a living thing with teeth and claws.
Quinley felt a tightness in her chest but masked it with a slight smile. "Forget about me, Mr. Jennings."
"Can you?" The question sliced through their careful distance.
Quinley feigned lightness. "Why couldn't I?"
If she tried hard enough, surely she could. People were forgotten every day. Hearts healed. Life continued.
"Goodbye, Mr. Jennings."
She turned to leave, but before she could take a single step, the car door swung open. Zachary's arm shot out like a viper, pulling her forcefully inside.
Caught off guard, she tumbled directly into his lap as the door closed behind her with finality.
The Maybach's interior, designed for luxury rather than space, suddenly felt impossibly small.
Even Zachary with his long limbs found it confining; with Quinley added, the space became intimate by necessity.
"Mr. Jennings," she protested, acutely aware of every point where their bodies connected.
She struggled to right herself, to create distance, but his arms formed an unbreakable cage around her.
"Must you leave?" he asked, looking down at her, his stern face shifting between shadow and light as cars passed outside.
"I must!" Her response carried the same unwavering certainty.
She was a pawn in a game with rules she hadn't written. Her moves were predetermined, her choices illusory.
Zachary's eyes were deep as midnight oceans, fathomless and dangerous. His brows furrowed as he studied her, searching for something she couldn't—or wouldn't—give him.
He had tried to keep her once, twice, again and again.
She had refused him every time.
His hand moved to her face, fingers gripping her chin with controlled strength, his knuckles white with tension.
"I'll give you one last chance to answer properly." The words were soft, but the threat beneath them was not.
Quinley looked up at him, her face illuminated by the passing streetlights. Though her heart trembled with emotions she dared not name, her expression remained a carefully crafted mask of indifference.
"Mr. Jennings, I must leave."
She repeated the words he didn't want to hear, each syllable another brick in the wall between them.
Anger blazed in Zachary's eyes, turning them to obsidian. Her defiance kindled a fire she couldn't control.
"You once said we would each take what we need and owe each other nothing," she reminded him, her voice steady despite the danger. "Have you forgotten?"
Bringing up the past was like throwing gasoline on embers. His face darkened further, becoming a storm cloud promising devastation.
Quinley made one final attempt to break free from his grip.
Suddenly, without warning, Zachary leaned down and captured her lips in a kiss that silenced all protest.