POV Noelle
I turn around and come face-to-face with the blonde woman from my first hospital visit. Same black-rimmed glasses, same scrubs, same expression that could freeze hell over and charge it rent.
"Who are you?" I ask, even though I can see her name tag clear as day: Lucille Alexander.
"Oh please, don't act like you don't know me." Her voice drips with the kind of fake sweetness that usually precedes a knife to the back. "We've already met before."
"I literally don't know you." I cross my arms because who the fuck does this random hospital worker think she is? "I've seen you once, you told me to watch where I was going, and that's the extent of our relationship."
Lucille's laugh sounds like nails on a chalkboard having an orgy. "Relationship. That's rich."
"What's your problem?"
"My problem is watching naive little girls think they're special when they're just another Tuesday night for men like Owen."
Okay, now I'm officially pissed. Heat crawls up my neck like I'm about to spontaneously combust. "Excuse me?"
"You think you're different, don't you? You think you matter to him."
"I think you need to mind your own fucking business."
"Sweetie, you are my business now."
She steps closer, and I catch a whiff of antiseptic mixed with something that might be desperation or cheap perfume or both.
"You're just the newest toy in Owen Tate's collection."
The words hit like a physical slap. My mouth opens and closes like a fish gasping for air because what the actual fuck is happening right now?
"How do you—" I start, then stop myself. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Of course you don't. Girls like you never do."
"Girls like me?"
"Rich, spoiled, sheltered little princesses who think they can play in the big leagues without getting burned to ash." Her smile is sharp enough to perform surgery. "Daddy's girls who've never had to face reality."
My brain is doing mental gymnastics trying to figure out how this random hospital employee knows anything about Owen and me. Because there is absolutely no way she should have intel on my personal life.
"Look, I don't know what your deal is—"
"My deal is watching Owen destroy every woman stupid enough to fall for his protective hero act."
"What act?"
"The strong, silent type who's just trying to keep you safe. The brooding bodyguard with a heart of gold." She laughs again, and it's genuinely unsettling. "You have no idea what world he actually lives in, do you?"
Actually, I do. I've watched him execute someone in my backyard like he was taking out the trash, so I'm pretty fucking aware of what world he lives in.
But something about this woman's tone makes my skin crawl like bugs are marching under it.
"I know enough."
"Do you? Do you know about his other assignments? His other girls?"
"Other girls?"
The question slips out before I can stop it, and I immediately hate myself for sounding so pathetic. So insecure. So exactly like the naive little girl she's painting me as.
"Oh honey, you really don't know anything." Lucille's smile could cut glass. "You think you're special because he fucks you? You think you matter because he protects you?"
"You don't know what you're talking about."
But even as I say it, my voice wavers. Because the truth is, I don't know Owen's past.
I don't know anything about him except that he's good at his job, he makes my pulse race, and he introduced me to his dying mother as "the daughter of a friend."
Fuck.
"I know Owen Tate better than you ever will. I know what he hides from you, what he doesn't tell you about his past, about the things he's done. The people he's done them with."
"That's bullshit."
The words come out stronger than I feel, which isn't saying much because I currently feel like jello that's been left in the sun too long.
"Is it? How much do you actually know about the man you're sleeping with? Beyond the fact that he looks good in a suit and knows how to use his hands and… other parts of his body?"
Heat floods my cheeks because she's hit way too close to home.
What do I really know about Owen? That he kills people for a living? That he's protecting me because my father pays him to? That he's got enough emotional walls to build a small fortress?
That's it. That's literally all I know about the man whose bed I've been sharing.
"You'll end up just like every other girl he's had," Lucille continues, and there's something almost pitiful in her voice now. "Used up and thrown away when the job is over."
"You're lying."
"Am I? Ask him about Sarah. The senator's daughter from two years ago. Ask him about Meghan, the oil executive's wife. Ask him about Rebecca, the judge's niece." She counts them off on her fingers like she's reciting a grocery list. "All beautiful. All rich. All convinced they were special."
My stomach drops like I'm on a roller coaster that just went off the rails. "How do you know all this?"
"Ahem."
We both turn at the sound of someone clearing their throat.
Owen stands about ten feet away, and his expression could cut diamonds with its intensity.
"Good to see you, Alexander."
Lucille's entire demeanor shifts. The fake pity disappears, replaced by something that looks like pure, concentrated hatred.
"Can't say the same about you, Tate."