Footsteps approached from behind, and Emily Blair instinctively glanced over. Her eyes met Andrew Lane's dark, intense, and fathomless. His thin lips were pressed together in a tight line.

Emily's expression froze.

It was her friend who first sensed something was off. The woman shot Andrew a

sharp, suspicious look, then quickly tightened her hold on Emily's arm, steering her away. All Andrew was left with was the sight of their retreating backs.

His deep, resonant voice echoed after them. "You left your phone at the house."

Emily's eyelashes fluttered.

He'd said "the house."

She knew she'd left her phone at Lane Manor last night, so she understood perfectly well what Andrew meant by calling it "the house" in front of her.

A bitter, helpless irony twisted in her chest.

The Lane family had tossed her out, yet somehow they still expected her to think of Lane Manor as home.

Wasn't that a little too cruel? Too high-handed?

Lane Manor would never be her home. She would never see that place—more like a den of lions than a home-as anything but a danger.

She kept her tone calm and polite. "I'll come by to get it later. Sorry for the trouble."

Polite. Distant. The sort of tone you'd use with a stranger.

For most people, that would be enough.

But Andrew Lane had never imagined that the Emily Blair he'd once known-the one who'd always been unruly and headstrong—would ever speak to him like this.

As if they were nothing more than passing strangers.

As if they hadn't spent nearly five years as family under the same roof.

Andrew's eyes darkened, his voice rough. "You have until the end of today to pick it up. After that, I'll throw it out."

He knew her phone was crammed with photos-photos of him, photos of the two of them together.

He was certain she wouldn't be willing to lose it.

Emily didn't even blink at his cold threat. She'd expected nothing less.

This was just who Andrew was. He'd never truly seen her as a person.

She accepted his words with a composure that seemed to enrage the woman at her side.

Her friend scowled fiercely, muttering under her breath, "What is wrong with your ex? So what if you left your phone with him for a little while? Who does he think he is, threatening to throw it out?"

"I thought a guy that good-looking would at least have some decency. Guess I was wrong."

Emily touched her friend's hand gently, a silent gesture to calm her down.

"It's fine. I'll handle it."

She stopped in her tracks but didn't bother turning around.

Her voice, flat and unbothered, drifted over her shoulder. "Then go ahead. Throw it away if you want. It doesn't matter."

Didn't matter?

Did the phone not matter, or did the memories inside it not matter?

Andrew's eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening as if he'd been slapped. In a low, warning tone, he called her name. "Emily Blair."

But this time, Emily didn't even acknowledge him. She strode away without a backward glance.

Her friend helped her back to the medical station for her IV, then left after a quick goodbye. Emily barely had time to thank her.

Emma George arrived late, breathless, carrying two steaming bowls of vegetable and chicken soup. She set them on the chair beside Emily, quickly unwrapping a spoon and pressing it into her hand.

"Eat up—I just picked these up for us."

Emily smiled, lips curving softly as she accepted the spoon. "Thanks. I will."

An hour later, her IV drip was finished, and the fever that had plagued her all night had finally broken.