Annabelle Linton was cold and loveless, like a purple vine. She was willing to draw a line and lock herself away inside. She was afraid of being hurt—so afraid that she would rather be isolated from the world than ever try love again.
It was a lethal poppy.
Annabelle Linton called someone to clean up the mess in the apartment and waited quietly for Leona Grant to come out.
Four hours later, Leona Grant was wheeled out. The surgery had been a success, but he hadn't woken up.
She sat in a chair, expressionless, and kept watch over him all night.
She thought about many, many things that night.
...
The next day, Leona Grant still hadn't woken up.
Annabelle Linton stayed with him until the afternoon.
She was a doctor; she knew the extent of Leona Grant's injuries.
'I've seen the report. It missed his heart by a few centimeters. Judging by his pulse, ECG, and other vitals, he's out of danger. He'll wake up, I just don't know when.'
