Tempted Trapped and Too Late to Run

When Dylan came back to Palm Bay, he still smelled like the early morning- fresh, a little wild, as if he'd brought the outside in with him.

The moment he stepped into the foyer, a servant hurried over.

"Did she eat dinner last night?" Dylan asked, cutting straight to the point.

"She ate a little," the servant replied.

It was barely six in the morning. Upstairs, Clara was still in bed.

Dylan shrugged off his coat and handed it over, keeping a bunch of flowers in his arms, their petals still dotted with dew. He started up the stairs, then paused and called back, "Bring a vase to the master bedroom."

He pushed open the bedroom door, bouquet in hand. The bed covers were pulled up into a small mound Clara, curled up tight. Just seeing her like that made something in his chest go soft.

The servant arrived with the vase. Dylan arranged the flowers, set them on the nightstand, and slipped into the bathroom to wash up.

Clara had heard the quiet whir of his wheelchair long before he came in. Truth was, she hadn't slept at all. She just lay there with her eyes shut, listening, pretending.

After a few minutes, Dylan returned. He lifted the edge of the comforter, clearly intending to climb in. But the second she felt the blanket shift, Clara's eyes snapped open. She sat up fast, yanking the entire blanket with her, wrapping it protectively around herself.

Dylan paused, meeting her eyes.

She stared back, guarded, tense. Then she slid off the bed and stood by the wall, putting distance between them.

The room filled with the sweet scent of flowers, but Clara just frowned, walked over, and pushed the window open for fresh air.

Unbothered, Dylan pulled the blanket back, sat on the bed, and opened his laptop, already diving into work.

Clara pressed her lips together, said nothing, and walked straight to the bedroom door. But when she opened it, someone was waiting outside, blocking her path.

She took a deep, frustrated breath and turned back, her patience gone.

"Dylan, what do you want from me, really?"

Before, when she'd been stuck here, at least she could wander around the main house. Now, except for meals, she was locked in his bedroom. Anyone would lose their mind.

He kept typing, pretending not to hear her.

Clara couldn't take it. She marched over and slammed his laptop shut.

There were still red marks on her wrist from last night, peeking out from under her sleeve.

"Dylan!" she snapped.

He caught her wrist, his touch surprisingly gentle. "Does it still hurt?"

He started to lean over, probably to grab the ointment from last night but Clara jerked back,

misunderstanding. She thought he was about to p

something so she

grabbed the vase and hurled it at

him.

The flowers and water went everywhere-petals and droplets scattering across the bed, splashing down his chest.

Clara twisted, trying to break free. "Let go!"

He swallowed hard, then slowly released her. "Sorry," he said quietly.

Her anger only burned hotter, almost suffocating.

Dylan set his laptop aside and left the room without another word. Clara stood there, fuming.

A few minutes later, Dylan returned, now in a crisp suit-ready for work. She tried to follow him out, but the same guard blocked her at the door. Watching Dylan's back as he walked away, she couldn't help but call out, you really get kick out of tocking

me up, don't you?"

He hesitated for a split second, but didn't look back. He just kept walking toward the elevator.

Clara's frustration boiled over. She slammed the door shut and stormed

to the window. It was only about.

twelve feet down-she didn't even didn'teven

think She just climbed out and jumped.

Landing in the flowerbed, pain shot through her ankle, but she pushed herself up and started limping away, desperate to find any road that would take her out of Palm Bay.

But no matter where she went, someone always appeared, polite as ever: "Ma'am, please, come back."

She stopped, feeling like all her anger might burn her up from the inside out. Finally, she gave up and sat right there in the grass, refusing to move.

Behind her, the quiet roll of a wheelchair sounded. The guards melted away. Clara leaned against a tree, listening as the wheelchair stopped close by. She let out a bitter laugh that didn't really sound like laughter at all.

Dylan rolled up and reached for her leg, wanting to check her ankle.

She tried to kick him away, but he held firm. His fingers pressed gently at her swollen ankle, making her wince.

She looked at his face-still so striking, almost painfully handsome-and suddenly all her fight drained away. She just felt tired.

She remembered meeting him for the first time after she lost her memory, how refined and kind he had seemed. How had he turned into this stranger so quickly?noveldrama