Master of his heart (Brielle and Max)

Her face was a mess of distress, a far cry from the poised, high-and-mighty demeanor she once had. Desperately gripping Jaired's sleeve, Alivia was a shadow of the woman who always held her head high. "Do you want to see who I'd sleep with?" she spat out, the words crude and out of place, like they belonged to someone else entirely. Was this the same Alivia everyone admired?

Jaired raised an eyebrow, a soft chuckle escaping his lips as he leaned in closer. "You're agreeing to this?"

Alivia's eyes shut tight, trembling. She felt every ounce of her dignity being stomped into the ground. She didn't feel human anymore; she felt like she was nothing but a harlot, a loose woman.

Tears welled up in her eyes; she never imagined she'd sink this low. "Yes! I agree! As long as you help me take down Brielle! Do whatever you want! I want that witch dead!"

"Don't worry," Jaired assured her, "I'll make it happen."

Alivia burst into tears again, her legs giving out underneath her. What had she become? An absolute disgrace!

She was consumed by hatred-hatred for Brielle, and for Max. She vowed to bring down those deceitful lovers!

Meanwhile, Brielle lay unconscious, completely unaware of the chaos unfolding outside.

The sudden blare of medical monitors jolted Max into action; he frantically pressed the call button as doctors rushed in and whisked Brielle away for emergency treatment. Overnight, her condition had taken a turn for the worse.

Max sat on the cold hospital corridor floor, his hands trembling. He leaned his head against the wall, his Adam's apple bobbing with each swallow. He pulled out a cigarette and lit it—a forbidden act in the hospital, yet no one dared to tell him off. The bloodshot eyes and his air of desperation were enough to keep people at bay.

He was running on fumes, clinging to a sliver of hope that kept him going. But he knew that if that hope vanished, he'd fall apart completely.

When Brielle was wheeled out the next morning, it was already dawn. Max felt like his feet were made of lead, barely able to move.

Back in the room, the doctor removed his mask and delivered the grim news. "Max, Ms. Brielle's head injury is severe. We've tried twice, but if luck isn't on our side, Ms. Brielle may never wake up. And if she does, there could be complications, like memory loss." Max looked up, his voice hoarse, "Are you saying she might have amnesia?"

The doctor frowned, "It's a possibility."

Max

hoed a bitter laugh, his gaze

falling

het

Brielle's still form in the

bed. If she dared forget him, he'd throttle her himself.

The doctor, sensing the tension, made a quick exit.

Patrick arrived at noon with fresh clothes and a razor for Max, who had been keeping vigil. Despite his efforts, the redness in Max's eyes wouldn't fade, not even witho

constant eye drops. Original content from NôvelDrama.Org.

After a shower, Max threw his suit in the trash and approached Brielle's bedside, this time with a mix of resentment and anger.

How convenient for her, to toss him aside and then end up in this state, possibly forgetting him completely.

He yanked back the covers and shook her shoulder. "Brielle, wake up," he pleaded.

But Brielle remained motionless.

Max was startled by his own loss of control. He gently replaced the blanket and felt his eyes sting with tears. "You better not forget me, you hear?" he growled, cursing himself for even thinking of using fout language-a far cry from his usual self-discipline.

Overwhelmed with anger, he wanted to lash out at her, to strangle her for causing him this pain.

Taking a deep breath, Max slumped in the chair beside her bed, once again taking her hand and pressing it against his cheek.

Unbeknownst to him, Brielle's fingertips brushed against something wet. They twitched involuntarily.

Max's lashes quivered as he lifted his gaze to her.

Her eyes slowly opened, staring blankly at the ceiling above.