Chapter 133
[Rose's POV]
The hospital corridor stretched endlessly before me, sterile white walls reflecting the afternoon sunlight that slanted through tall windows.I made my way toward the VIP wing, each step a reminder that two weeks had passed since that night in the warehouse. The bruises had faded to dull yellow-green shadows beneath my clothes. The rope burns on my wrists were healing into thin pink lines. But some wounds ran deeper than skin.
I found Benjamin's room at the end of the hallway. The door stood slightly ajar, and I paused outside it, gathering myself. Through the gap, I could see the edge of his bed, the IV stand beside it.
I pushed the door open.
Benjamin lay propped against several pillows, his right shoulder wrapped in thick white bandages that stood out starkly against his hospital gown. His left leg hung suspended in a traction device, encased in plaster from knee to ankle. The pallor of his face made the shadows under his eyes more pronounced, but when he saw me, something shifted in his expression. His gray eyes brightened, and a smile touched his lips.
"I was starting to think you wouldn't come today."
The words were light, teasing almost, but I heard the undercurrent of relief beneath them. Guilt twisted in my chest. He'd driven a speeding car directly into a shipping container to save me. He'd fought off an armed man while bleeding from multiple wounds. And I'd been avoiding visiting as often as I should because seeing him like this—broken, hurting—reminded me too viscerally of how close I'd come to losing him.
"I'm sorry," I said quietly, moving to the chair beside his bed. "I should have come earlier."
"Stop." His hand moved slightly against the white sheet, fingers curling as if to reach for me but thinking better of it. "Rose, you don't need to apologize for anything. What I did—" He paused, his jaw tightening. "I'd do it a thousand times over. You understand that, right?"
I met his gaze and saw the absolute certainty there. No hesitation. No regret. Just unwavering conviction that saving me had been worth every broken bone, every torn ligament, every moment of pain.
"I understand," I managed to say, though my throat felt tight.
A brisk knock interrupted the moment. A nurse swept in, clipboard in hand, her movements efficient and practiced. She checked Benjamin's monitors, adjusted his IV drip, and carefully examined the visible portions of his bandages.
"Healing nicely," she announced, making notes on her clipboard. "The shoulder wound is showing good tissue regeneration. No signs of infection. The bone fracture in your leg is stable." She glanced at Benjamin with professional sternness. "But you're looking at a minimum of six weeks before we can remove that cast. No weight-bearing until we confirm proper bone fusion."
Benjamin nodded, his expression neutral, but I saw the flash of frustration in his eyes. Six weeks. Six weeks of being trapped in a hospital bed while whoever had orchestrated my kidnapping remained free.
The nurse finished her examination and left with instructions to call if he experienced any increased pain or swelling. The door clicked shut behind her, and silence settled over the room again.
"Close the door properly," Benjamin said, his voice dropping lower. "And lock it."
I did as he asked, my pulse quickening slightly. When I returned to his bedside, his expression had shifted into something harder, more focused.
"Jennifer found something," he said without preamble. "Sarah Miller made an unusual financial transaction three months before the kidnapping. Two hundred thousand dollars withdrawn from her personal account. The money trail goes cold after that—no record of where it went or what it was used for."
I felt my stomach drop. Two hundred thousand dollars. That was serious money. Not the kind of amount someone used for ordinary expenses.
"Could it be legitimate?" I asked, though I already suspected the answer.
"Jennifer's team checked everything. No major purchases in that time frame. No property investments. No charitable donations. Nothing that would account for that kind of cash withdrawal." Benjamin's fingers drummed restlessly against the bed rail. "And then there's Rachel."
"The bar," I said, remembering Jennifer's surveillance footage.
"She wasn't just there by coincidence." Benjamin's gray eyes held mine with unsettling intensity. "Think about the timing. She arrives twenty minutes before your group. She has a clear view of the entrance. She stays for forty-five minutes—just long enough to confirm you'd shown up and then leave. That's not random, Rose. That's surveillance. That's someone acting as a spotter, making sure you were in position before notifying the actual kidnappers."
"We don't have proof," I said carefully. "Just suspicion."
"Which is why we can't confront them directly." Benjamin's tone brooked no argument. "If we tip our hand now, whoever's really behind this will destroy evidence, create alibis, make it impossible to prove anything. We need to let them think their plan succeeded. That you're intimidated. Broken, even. Let them get comfortable, maybe even cocky enough to make another move. That's when they'll expose themselves."
I processed this, my mind automatically running through probability matrices. He was right. Confronting Sarah and Rachel without ironclad evidence would accomplish nothing except alerting them to our investigation. Better to maintain the illusion of ignorance while Jennifer's team continued gathering intelligence.
"Alfred's already increased security at Magnolia Estate," Benjamin continued. "You won't be alone anywhere. No more situations where someone could isolate you."
"Thank you," I said quietly.
My iPhone buzzed insistently in my pocket, shattering the tense atmosphere. I pulled it out, glancing at the screen. Amanda Peterson—American Dream Star.
I answered, keeping my voice neutral. "Hello?"
"Rose!" Amanda's voice burst through the speaker with characteristic enthusiasm. "I'm so glad I caught you. Listen, I know this is short notice, but we're hosting the American Dream Star award ceremony this Saturday evening at Boston Symphony Hall. Seven PM sharp, and it's being broadcast live nationwide."
I felt Benjamin's gaze on me as I checked the calendar. Today was Friday afternoon.
"The buzz around you has been incredible," Amanda continued, not waiting for my response. "The hashtag WhereIsRose has over five million views across social media. Everyone's wondering where you disappeared to after the finale. Your fans are dying to see you at the ceremony."
My free hand moved unconsciously to my cheek, where the worst of the bruising had faded but not entirely vanished. Foundation could cover it. Probably.
"I need to think about it," I said carefully. "Can I call you back?"
"Of course, but I really need to know soon," Amanda said, her tone shifting to urgency. "We're finalizing the program schedule. It would mean so much to have you there, Rose. You've become such an important part of the show's story."
I ended the call and lowered the phone, aware of Benjamin watching me intently.
"You're thinking about not going," he said. It wasn't a question.
"I'm not ready." The admission felt like weakness, but it was true. My body still ached. My sleep was fractured by nightmares. The thought of standing on a stage in front of thousands of people, cameras broadcasting my image across the entire country, made my chest tighten with anxiety.
"You should go."
I looked at him sharply, surprised by the certainty in his voice.
"Think about it strategically," Benjamin said, shifting slightly against his pillows and wincing at the movement. "You've been invisible for two weeks. The media is already speculating wildly about why you missed the post-finale press events. If you skip the award ceremony too, it's going to fuel even more speculation. Rumors will spiral. And more importantly, whoever orchestrated your kidnapping is paying attention to all of this."
I saw where he was going with this logic, but I let him continue.
"If you stay hidden, they'll think they succeeded in intimidating you. That you're afraid, traumatized, unwilling to face the public. That gives them power." His fingers drummed against the bed rail again, a restless rhythm. "But if you show up at that ceremony looking confident and unbothered, if you walk onto that stage in front of a national audience looking absolutely stunning, it sends a completely different message."
"That their plan failed," I said slowly.
"Not just failed—that it backfired spectacularly. It'll make them question themselves. Make them wonder if they had bad intelligence, if their whole operation was compromised from the start. That kind of psychological pressure forces mistakes." Benjamin's gray eyes held mine with fierce intensity. "Rose, I know you're still recovering. I know this isn't what you want to do. But showing strength when you feel weakest—that's how you win wars."
"What about security?" I asked. "If they tried once—"
"I'll have Jennifer coordinate the highest level of protection available. Sullivan Entertainment owns half the venues in Boston. We can ensure your absolute safety at Symphony Hall. Armed security, vetted staff, controlled access points. No one gets near you without clearance." His expression softened slightly. "Rose, I wouldn't suggest this if I thought you'd be in danger. But we need to shift the momentum back in our favor. This is how we do it."
Benjamin was right. Hiding would only confirm their victory. But stepping into the spotlight, showing them I was unbroken and unbowed—that would shake them. That would force their hand.
"Okay," I said finally. "I'll go. But you have to promise me something."
"Anything."
"If Jennifer's team discovers any hint of danger, any indication that something's wrong, you tell me immediately. No 'protecting me from worry' nonsense. I need to know what I'm walking into."
"Deal." Benjamin reached for the iPad on his bedside table, wincing again at the movement. His fingers moved across the screen with surprising speed despite his injuries. "I'm messaging Jennifer now. Full security detail, professional styling team, dress options from the top designers. She'll coordinate everything."
"I should let you rest," I said, standing.
"Stay a few more minutes." His voice held an edge of vulnerability. "I hate being stuck in this bed while you're out there dealing with everything."
I settled back into the chair. "You literally drove a car into a shipping container to save me. I think you've done enough."
"Not even close." His expression turned serious. "Rose, when you walk onto that stage tomorrow night, I want you to remember something. Whoever tried to hurt you, whoever orchestrated all of this—they picked the wrong target."
"Thank you," I said quietly.
"Always." He paused, then added with a slight smile, "Now get out of here before the nurses yell at me for keeping visitors too long. Go home, get some sleep, and tomorrow let Jennifer's team work their magic. I'll be watching on TV, and I expect to see the Rose Evans who can silence an entire auditorium with just her presence."
I leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead, feeling him tense slightly at the contact. When I pulled back, his eyes had darkened with complex emotion.
"I'll see you after the ceremony," I promised.
"I'll be counting the minutes."
I left his room with purpose in my steps, my phone already out to call Amanda Peterson back. The decision was made. Tomorrow night, the entire country would see that Rose Evans wasn't hiding. Wasn't afraid. Wasn't defeated.