"Fiona?"
Jackson's voice carried surprise, not the warm kind, just the startled kind, like finding someone where they didn't belong. His gaze moved from her flushed face to the man standing behind her, and something flickered in his expression before settling into careful neutrality.
Silas King, the business prodigy who had built an empire from nothing before he was thirty. Silas King, the man magazines called "The Eagle" for his sharp vision and his ability to swoop down and devour competitors whole. Silas King, whose ruthlessness was whispered about in boardrooms and dinner parties alike, whose anger was the stuff of corporate legend, whose very name made strong men lower their voices and glance over their shoulders.
Jackson and his older brother weren't close. Silas had grown up abroad, sent away for studies while Jackson remained here, raised in the warmth and comfort of the King family home. They existed in separate worlds, separate countries, separate lives connected only by blood and the occasional family gathering.
Jackson, in his perfectly fitted white shirt, had the kind of handsome that felt familiar and safe—approachable, like the boy next door. Silas, on the other hand, radiated something else entirely. Danger rolled off him like heat from a furnace, control woven into every line of his body. Two brothers, worlds apart.
"So she's your fiancée?" Silas's voice was calm. Deceptively calm. The kind of calm that made Fiona's skin prickle with warning even though the question wasn't directed at her. He was watching Jackson with those burning eyes, but Fiona could feel his attention flickering toward her occasionally, like heat lightning on the edge of vision.
She realized suddenly that she was hiding.
Literally hiding, her body angled behind Jackson's broader frame, her fingers actually reaching out to curl slightly into the back of his shirt before she caught herself and let them drop. The shame of it burned her cheeks. She was a grown woman, twenty-one years old, getting married tomorrow, and here she was cowering behind her fiancé like a child afraid of the dark.
But she couldn't help it. Silas's presence was overwhelming in a way she couldn't explain. It pressed against her skin, filled her lungs, made her heart beat too fast and her thoughts scatter like startled birds. Standing behind Jackson felt safer, even though Jackson hadn't once reached for her hand, hadn't once pulled her close, hadn't once looked at her with anything resembling the fierce protectiveness he had shown Natasha just hours ago.
"Yeah."
The word came out flat, and Jackson immediately regretted how it sounded. But he couldn't help it. Standing here, with Silas looking at her with that unreadable expression, Jackson felt keenly aware of everything wrong with this picture.
Fiona was flushed and disheveled, tear tracks still visible on her cheeks. Her red dress was too tight. It clung to her waist, her stomach, her thick thighs in ways that made him want to look away. She looked exactly like what she was: a woman who had passed out from blood donation hours ago and clearly hadn't recovered. And next to her, in his mind's eye, floated Natasha's image, pale and delicate in white, effortlessly beautiful even while injured, the kind of woman other men envied him for being engaged to.
If only Fiona looked more like Natasha, he thought, the words forming before he could stop them. If only she carried herself better, dressed better, existed better. If only introducing her didn't feel like explaining a mistake.
The thought shamed him. Briefly. Then he pushed it aside.
"Congratulations on your wedding tomorrow," Silas said smoothly, his gaze still resting on Fiona in that unsettling way. "I look forward to getting to know my new sister-in-law."
Jackson forced a smile. "Thanks. We should get going. It's late."
He didn't reach for Fiona's hand. Didn't pull her close. Just turned slightly, creating space for her to follow, already walking toward the elevator.
The elevator doors slid shut, sealing them into a small box of chrome and mirrored walls. Fiona leaned against the back corner, her legs barely holding her, the reflection showing her everything she wished she couldn't see: mascara smudged beneath her eyes, her hair escaping its careful styling, the red dress wrinkled and pulled tight across her stomach as she slumped with exhaustion.
Jackson stood near the doors, arms crossed, jaw tight. The silence stretched between them like a wire pulled too thin.
"What's wrong with you?" he finally asked, turning to look at her. "And your condition?"
Fiona flinched. The words landed like small cuts, "what's wrong with you," as if she herself was a problem to be diagnosed.
"I didn't expect you here," Jackson continued, his voice carrying irritation he didn't bother hiding. "I heard my brother was here so I came to talk with him. Business stuff. Important stuff." He gestured vaguely at her. "But seeing your condition... what happened? You look terrible."
Terrible.
Fiona's throat tightened. She pressed her lips together, willing herself not to cry. Not here. Not in front of him.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, and even to her own ears, her voice sounded like it was about to shatter, thin and breathless and holding back a flood.
Jackson stared at her for a long moment. She could see him taking her in, the trembling hands, the pale cheeks beneath the flush, the way she swayed slightly even while leaning against the wall. His expression flickered between annoyance and something that might have been reluctant concern.
God, she looks pathetic, he thought, but the words felt uncomfortable even inside his own head. She was his fiancée. Tomorrow she would be his wife. And here she was, falling apart in an elevator, and all he felt was embarrassed that his brother had seen her like this.
Then she made a small sound, not quite a sob, just a tiny escaped breath of misery, and something in his chest twisted reluctantly.
He sighed heavily, the sound filling the small space.
"Fine," he muttered, and before she could react, he stepped forward and pulled her into a hug.
Fiona froze for one heartbeat, two, then collapsed against him, her forehead pressing into his shoulder, her fingers clutching weakly at the back of his shirt. He was warm. He was solid. He was holding her, actually holding her, and the relief of it made fresh tears prick behind her eyes even as she fought to keep them contained.
Jackson stood stiffly for a moment, arms around her, feeling the way her body trembled against his. She felt soft. Too soft. Her weight pressed into him in ways that reminded him exactly how different she was from the women he usually held. But she was shaking, really shaking, and even he couldn't be cruel enough to push her away right now.
"You're going home," he said, his voice firmer now, settling into the relief of having a problem he could solve. "Okay? You're clearly not well. I'll tell my driver to take you back."
Fiona nodded against his shoulder, not trusting her voice.
Jackson pulled back just enough to look at her. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her face blotchy, and she looked nothing like the composed bride he had imagined standing beside him tomorrow. Disappointment flickered through him, quick and sharp, before he pushed it down.
"Come on," he said, keeping one hand on her elbow as the elevator doors opened. "Let's get you out of here."
He guided her through the lobby, past curious glances, toward the waiting car. Fiona let herself be led, too tired to feel the shame of being seen like this, too drained to notice how Jackson's grip on her elbow was careful rather than affectionate, like he was handling something fragile he didn't quite want to touch.
The driver opened the door. Jackson helped her inside, then stepped back.
"Rest," he said simply. "I'll see you tomorrow."
The door closed. The car pulled away.
And Jackson stood there for a moment, watching taillights disappear into the night.