With Helena, he never had to lift a finger to demand total submission.
Even the slightest hint of a smile from him could keep her hopelessly devoted for weeks.
He had assumed that the moment she walked through that door, everything would reset to the way it was.
Instead, reality hit him like a freight train.
"You don't have to take them," she said, her voice entirely devoid of emotion. "Your surgical incisions will get infected. You'll be rushed back into the OR. If you keep refusing treatment, the tissue will necrotize, and your arm will probably be permanently crippled."
She delivered the prognosis like she was reading a weather report.
There was no pleading. No soft touches. Just cold, hard facts.
He stared at her, utterly taken aback. His frown deepened into a heavy scowl.
The mental image alone disgusted him.
"And if you end up a cripple, wouldn't Ms. Ramirez be utterly devastated?" Her delivery was so detached it barely registered as an insult.
She nudged the water and pills slightly closer to him.
The choice was his.
"You..." He glared at her, completely thrown.
She didn't look away.
Giving a brief nod, she calmly walked over to the sofa, sat down, and pulled out her breakfast sandwich.
After all the morning drama, she was starving.
She was pregnant; she had to keep her strength up for the baby.
"So you didn't even bring me anything to eat?" he demanded in disbelief.
She took a bite of her sandwich and blinked innocently. "I thought I didn't need to worry about that anymore. Isn't that right?"
His expression darkened instantly.
He wasn't stupid. He caught the sarcasm loud and clear.
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