The next day at noon, Elizabeth finally stirred from her uneasy slumber.
After returning from the hospital, she had messaged the director to ask for a leave of absence and then collapsed onto her bed, her body swathed in blankets.
The rap on her door dragged her from her doze, sharp and persistent.
She groaned softly, pressing a hand to her forehead as she squinted at her phone. Noon already.
“Elizabeth? Are you there?” Asher’s familiar voice resonated through the door, laced with concern. “I brought you lunch. Pumpkin millet porridge and chicken soup—free-range chicken, naturally flavorful, no seasoning. It’s good for your recovery.”
Earlier that morning, he’d shown up on set to discover she was unwell. Distracted, he had stumbled through takes he would normally perfect in a single shot.
By lunchtime, he hadn’t eaten himself but had hurried to pack something light and nourishing for her.
She stretched, intending to open the door, but a glimpse in the mirror froze her in place. Her face—once delicately defined—was puffy, the faint trace of a slap still evident.
It felt like a mark of disgrace, and the thought of Asher seeing her this way made her chest constrict.
Her fingers hovered over the blanket before she retreated, pulling it back over herself. Instead, she quickly texted him: “I’m fine, just weak and not up for seeing anyone. You should head back.”
Outside, Asher frowned at the response. The terse tone heightened his worry. He stared at the door, deliberating whether to persist, when a voice interrupted his thoughts.
“Asher?”
He turned to see Scarlet at the top of the stairs, her cheeks flushed from climbing.
She brushed a strand of hair behind her ear, her jacket sleeves carelessly rolled up, and approached him.
