Chapter 150

Chapter 150
Nydia's POV
I stared at the television screen, searching desperately for anything—a headline, a ticker, a breaking news alert—anything that might tell me where Vincent was. Whether he was alive.
What I got instead made my stomach drop.
A news anchor's voice filled the dining room, calm and professional, delivering the words like they were just another item on the evening rundown: A body recovered from the coast has been confirmed through DNA analysis to be that of Nydia Hartwell. The family has been notified and has claimed the remains.
I sat completely still.
Across the table, Tanner burst out laughing. He spread his arms wide like a game show host revealing the grand prize. "Surprise! Wasn't that something? Come on—I have to ask." He leaned forward, grinning. "Miss Nydia, how does it feel to watch your own death announced on live television?"
I looked at him. Steady. Flat.
"Boring," I said. "What exactly was the point of faking my death?"
He shook his head like I'd just said something adorably naive. "Of course there's a point. Think about it—if I hadn't put that story out, your family and your ex would still be turning over every rock looking for you. That's a headache I don't need." He waved a hand. "But now? They'll grieve, they'll accept it, they'll move on. No one's coming for you. We can finally settle in."
"Settle in," I repeated.
"Together." He rubbed his hands together like he'd been looking forward to saying it. "Nydia, I'll be honest with you—I started this whole thing because you belonged to Vincent. Leverage, pure and simple. But these past few days?" He tilted his head, studying me with something that was supposed to look like warmth. "You're different. You're not like anyone I've met. You've got this—" he searched for the word "—fire to you. I'm genuinely drawn to you. I want to spend my life with you."
His eyes were completely empty.
I said nothing.
Tanner's face fell into an exaggerated pout. "You're breaking my heart. I'm serious about this, Nydia. Can't you feel it?"
I propped my chin in my hand and looked at him. "If you let me go," I said pleasantly, "I might start to."
"Not a chance." He didn't even pause. "You're staying with me. Give it time—I'm confident you'll come around. You loved Vincent, didn't you? One day you'll feel that way about me."
"Keep dreaming."
"I always do." Something shifted in his expression—a flicker of cruelty dressed up as amusement. "I used to dream about Vincent dying, too. And look how that turned out."
"He's not dead."
Tanner shrugged, unbothered. "Believe what you want. But let's move on—second story. I think you'll find this one very interesting."
I expected Vincent. I braced for it.
What came up instead was a wedding announcement.
Gordon Halstead and Olive Bennett are set to wed in a private ceremony…
I stared at it blankly, then turned to Tanner. "Why are you showing me this?"
"Your ex-boyfriend is marrying your sister." He smiled. "Aren't you even a little bit touched?"
I rolled my eyes. "They have absolutely nothing to do with me. I don't care about either of them."
"Oh, that's cold." Tanner clicked his tongue. "You've forgotten already? On that yacht, when I was taking you away—he stood up for you. Tried to stop me."
"And?" I kept my voice level. "We broke up. I can't stand him. And for the record—" I looked directly at Tanner "—Olive is not my sister. Don't call her that. She's the daughter of the man who kidnapped me, and she's a two-faced opportunist who has spent years making my life miserable. Those are the only relevant facts."
Tanner clapped, delighted. "God, you're stunning when you're angry."
There was no point engaging with him. I looked back at the screen and said flatly, "I only care about Vincent. If the next story isn't about him, turn it off."
"So impatient." He tutted softly. "I know you want news about him. I want news about him too, for very different reasons. Third story." He paused, watching my face. "I put it last because I was worried it might upset you. Thoughtful of me, don't you think?"
Something cold settled into my chest.
He's trying to prepare me.
That means—
No. I pushed the thought down hard. I wouldn't let it form. I wouldn't let myself finish it.
Tanner pressed play.
The anchor's voice returned, measured and unhurried: "Vincent Smith, CEO and controlling shareholder of the Smith Group, fell overboard during a maritime incident seven days ago. Despite an extensive search operation, rescue teams have been unable to locate Mr. Smith. Efforts are ongoing."
The room went quiet.
Seven days.
They had been searching for seven days and found nothing.
"I told you it might sting." Tanner sighed, theatrical and satisfied. "Seven days, Nydia. And he went in wounded—gunshot wound to the shoulder, head trauma. A healthy person couldn't survive seven days in open water. He's gone."
"Shut up." The words came out sharp and ragged. I was on my feet without realizing it, my hands braced against the table's edge, fury and terror tangled so tightly in my chest I couldn't separate them. "Don't you dare—he's fine. He's alive. Someone got to him."
"Or the ocean did."
"Someone saved him!" My voice cracked on the last word and I didn't care. "He was pulled out. He's out there. He wouldn't just—" I stopped, fought for breath, forced myself to hold it together. "He is not dead. He would never leave me here. He's coming."
Tanner leaned back in his chair, watching me fall apart with the quiet satisfaction of someone who had planned exactly this. "Nydia. He's dead. You can scream it at the ceiling if it helps, but it won't change anything."
"I don't believe you." I straightened. I looked him dead in the eyes and I made myself stop shaking. "He was rescued. He's alive. And when he finds out where I am—" my voice steadied "—he is going to come for you. You should be a lot more worried about that than you're letting on."
Tanner threw his head back and laughed, opening his arms wide. "Then I'll roll out the welcome mat! I'd love for Vincent Smith to walk through my front door." The laughter faded slowly, and what was left behind was something uglier. "But he won't, sweetheart. Because he's dead. And the sooner you make peace with that, the easier this is going to be for both of us."
I sat back down.
I didn't say another word. I fixed my gaze on the middle distance and let him talk, let him gloat, let him fill the silence with everything he wanted me to hear.
Vincent is alive.
I had decided that. I had chosen it like a lifeline, and I was not letting go.
---
Mia's POV
The doctor finished his examination and stepped back from the bed, making notes on his tablet. I stood near the window, arms crossed, watching him the way I'd been watching every person who came near Vincent for the past seven days—like the slightest misstep would cost them more than they wanted to find out.
The night Tanner took Nydia, my people had pulled Vincent out of the water.
It had been close. Closer than I let myself think about for too long. He'd been in the water for almost forty minutes by the time they reached him—gunshot wound to the shoulder, head trauma, hypothermia setting in. By rights, he shouldn't have made it.
But he had.
I'd had him moved quietly, well below Lima's radar—which had taken considerable effort, because Lima was not a man who missed much. We'd taken a private jet back to Italy that same night, and I'd had my personal physician waiting by the time we landed.
The shoulder wound had been clean—the bullet hadn't hit anything vital, and the entry wound had already begun to close. But the time in the water had introduced an infection, and that infection had turned into a fever that had spiked dangerously within the first twenty-four hours.
The doctor had extracted the bullet, cleaned and dressed the wound, administered antibiotics, and told me he'd be conscious within three days.
That had been seven days ago.
The fever had broken on day four. The infection had cleared. His vitals had stabilized into something almost normal. He was breathing on his own, color returning to his face, no signs of secondary complications.
He just wouldn't wake up.
I watched the doctor set down his tablet and look at me with the careful expression of someone choosing their words.
"Well?" I asked.
"Physiologically, he's recovering well," the doctor said. "The wound is healing cleanly. His vitals are strong. There's no medical reason he should still be unconscious."
I held his gaze. "Then what's keeping him under?"
The doctor paused. "Sometimes, after significant physical and psychological trauma occurring simultaneously, the body makes a kind of executive decision." He looked back at Vincent—still, pale against the white pillow, but breathing with a steadiness that hadn't been there a week ago. "It prioritizes healing over consciousness. Shuts down non-essential functions to redirect resources." He paused again. "In layman's terms—he may simply not be ready."
"Ready," I repeated.
"It's not uncommon in cases like this. The body knows what it's doing." He met my eyes. "He'll wake up when he's healed enough to handle being awake. The best thing you can do right now is wait."
I turned back to the window.
Outside, the late afternoon light was cutting long shadows across the garden, golden and quiet, indifferent to everything happening in this room.
Wake up, Vincent.
I pressed my fingertips against the glass.
There's someone out there waiting for you. Don't you dare make her wait too long.