"Ah, that... I've stopped caring, really... ahahaha... I brought her because I fancy her. Whether she's the correct Beatrice or not doesn't matter," he replied nonchalantly, a hint of amusement in his voice.
Derek chuckled at his boss's carefree attitude, though a lingering unease remained in the back of his mind.
"Wasn't the Boss's initial intention to save her just to irritate Atlas? Why does it seem like you're now shielding and concealing her whereabouts?" Derek's perplexity was evident in his silent question.
"The doctors assure us that she's stable and should regain consciousness soon."
"That's a relief. I'll make a point to visit her today."
He stood up, adjusting his clothes and hair. Walking towards the mirror, he gazed at his handsome reflection and winked.
"I look handsome, don't I, Derek?"
Derek could only grimace. "Yes, sir, always looking dapper, sir."
"Don't flatter me, Derek. I don't swing that way," Cyrus waved a hand dismissively.
Derek could only sigh in resignation, facing his boss's unpredictable nature.
His hands casually tucked into his pockets as he leaving Derek to ponder Cyrus's next move.
His boss was the epitome of perfection: handsome, powerful, and commanding. With an air of invincibility, he exuded confidence in every step he took.
He was flawless.
His only weakness? Beautiful women.
His undeniable attraction to beautiful women, a vulnerability that even his immense strength couldn't shield him from.
*
Cyrus sat beside the bed where Beatrice had been lying for three long days, her face pale and still. An IV drip was attached to her left hand, delivering a steady flow of fluids into her weakened body.
Her right wrist bore a deep, jagged cut, the edges raw and angry, the only severe wound marring her delicate skin. The rest of her body, though bruised and battered, showed no other signs of such extreme injury.
The blood that stained Beatrice's body that fateful night was not her own but that of Atlas's men. It splattered across her skin and clothes, a grim evidence to the violence she had endured.
The dark crimson stains contrasted starkly with her pale complexion. He could imagined the fierce struggle and fight that had taken place.
Cyrus tilted his head and gently took Beatrice's bandaged right hand, feeling the rough texture of the gauze against his fingers. The doctor had said that her bones were slightly crushed, the injury would take time to heal.
"Even your fist got crushed when you used it to hit someone. Your body isn't one that's used to fighting," Cyrus murmured. He could see the faint bruises peeking out from beneath the bandages.
At that precise moment, Beatrice's eyes fluttered open, and she immediately pulled her hand away from Cyrus's gentle grasp.
Disoriented and confused, she looked around the room, her eyes wide with uncertainty.
"Where am I?" she whispered, her voice barely audible.
Cyrus leaned in closer, his expression softening with concern. "You're in a safe place," he assured her, his voice calm and soothing. "Don't worry, Beatrice. You're safe here. You're safe with me."
However, as Cyrus moved his hand, Beatrice flinched in fear.
"Would you like some water?" Cyrus offered gently.
Beatrice nodded, still visibly shaken.
Cyrus reached over to the nightstand beside the bed, picked up a glass of water, and handed it to her. His movements were slow and careful, ensuring he didn't startle her further.
"Why did you help me?" Beatrice asked, her voice trembling.
"You asked me for help, remember?" Cyrus replied gently.
Beatrice's eyes widened as the memories came flooding back. She remembered the desperate moment when she had reached out to him, pleading for help.
The terror of that night, the chaos, and the violence all rushed back, but so did the memory of Cyrus's calm and steady presence.
She nodded slowly, the realization dawning on her.
"And… how do you know my name, Mrs. Hawk?" Cyrus asked, his curiosity piqued.
This time, it was Beatrice who was at a loss for words, searching for a plausible reason. She didn't even know Cyrus at all.
That night, it had been Blade who controlled most of her body and mind, especially when Beatrice was on the verge of passing out in the middle of the fight.
Beatrice stopped drinking and looked at him fearfully. "Atlas often mentioned you. You're his rival," she lied. "And, please, just call me Beatrice."
"Beatrice or Blade?"
Beatrice looked puzzled for a moment. "I don't understand."
"You introduced yourself to me as Blade the first time we met," he clarified.
"Blade is my childhood nickname. My father used to call me that," she explained, her voice softening slightly as she remembered her past.
Cyrus nodded, absorbing this new piece of information. "A fitting name," he remarked with a hint of a smile. "It suits you."
Cyrus studied her for a moment, his eyes narrowing slightly as he tried to gauge the truth of her words.
"And by the way, Atlas mentioned me?" his tone a mix of skepticism and curiosity.
Beatrice nodded, avoiding his gaze. She could feel the weight of his stare, and it made her heart race.
"Atlas often mentioned you. You're his business rival," she lied.
She hoped her lie would hold, at least until she could figure out more about this man and why he had helped her.
Cyrus finally sighed, leaning back in his chair.
"Well, it seems Atlas and I have more in common than I thought," he said with a slight chuckle, though his eyes remained serious. "But don't worry. You're safe here. Just focus on getting better."
She sipped the water again, trying to calm her nerves. The room fell into a quiet tension, filled with unspoken questions and uncertainties.
"Tell me more about that night," Cyrus said eventually, breaking the silence. "Why would he want to kill you, his own wife?"
"I… don't want to talk about it," Beatrice answered softly, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Do you still love him after everything he's done to you?" Cyrus asked, his tone gentle yet probing.