In the VIP hospital room.
Ethan Blackwell sat on the hospital bed in a patient gown, working on his laptop.
Clara Dawson, in a white dress, was quietly painting at an easel by the window. Her long black hair hung loosely around her shoulders, occasionally fluttering with the breeze, brushing lightly across her fair, delicate face—it was a picture of calm and warmth.
Ethan’s fingers paused on the keyboard, his eyes unconsciously drawn toward Clara.
She sat bathed in sunlight, her white dress almost glimmering. Holding her brush, she moved gracefully across the canvas—like some kind of fairy casting a spell, each stroke soothing to the soul.
Ethan shut his laptop.
Clara turned to look at him right away. “Thinking of getting up?”
“Yeah.”
He placed the laptop on the b
