Victorious
LILIANA’S POV
“Liliana… baby girl…” Ronny said,
Low, rough, laced with a kind of panic that almost made me sit up immediately and admit I’d been faking. Almost.
Instead, I let my lashes flutter just enough to give the impression of a woman valiantly fighting her way back from the brink of death. My throat felt dry from sleep, but that only added to the effect. When I spoke, my voice came out soft, weak, even pitiful. Perfect.
“Ronny…”
His hand was already on mine, warm and steady, those storm-gray eyes locked on me like I was his entire world. God, I almost broke right there. The raw fear etched across his features didn’t match the man who strode through life untouchable, unshakable. It was too much, too real.
“Don’t try to talk,” he said quickly, thumb brushing over my knuckles as though the gesture alone could soothe me back to health. “You scared the hell out of me.”
I swallowed, letting my gaze drift toward the window as if I were too fragile to meet his eyes. “I don’t want to… hold you back,” I whispered, my voice deliberately ragged. “You should go. Switzerland… I’ll be fine.”
The silence that followed was heavy, dangerous, electric. Then his voice cut through, sharp and final.
“No way in hell am I leaving you.”
The conviction in it nearly unraveled me. My lips twitched, desperate to curve into a grin, but I bit the inside of my cheek hard enough to taste copper. Not yet. Stay in character.
“I’ll be okay,” I croaked. “I don’t want you to miss your—”
“Stop.” His tone was soft but commanding, a line drawn in the sand. His thumb traced over my cheekbone, his eyes darkening. “Nothing out there matters more than you right here.”
God. This man. He had no idea he was making my performance even harder. A handbag. I promised myself right then—a handbag for surviving this. Maybe two.
Maria bustled in with wide, worried eyes, announcing she’d already called for the doctor. I almost told her not to, but then Ronny’s jaw tightened, and I realized it was too late. He wasn’t going to rest until a professional swore I wasn’t about to keel over.
The doctor arrived within the hour, a brisk man with graying hair and a leather satchel that looked like it had survived three world wars. He checked my pulse, my breathing, pressed the cold disc of his stethoscope against my chest while Ronny hovered dangerously close, glaring at every movement like the poor man might snap me in half.
Finally, the doctor straightened, pushing his glasses up his nose. “She just needs rest. Exhaustion, perhaps some stress. Nothing serious. She’ll be fine with time.”
I could’ve sung hallelujah.
Ronny, however, still looked like he was plotting ways to build me a human-sized bubble. “You’re sure?” His tone was clipped, steel-edged.
“Yes,” the doctor confirmed with a small smile. “Quite sure.”
When the man finally left, relief washed over me—but only for a second, because then Ronny turned back to me with all that intensity still burning in his eyes.
“How are you feeling now?” he asked, lowering himself onto the edge of the bed. His hand brushed over my hair, smoothing it back from my face with infuriating tenderness.
I let my lips part on a shaky breath. “Better… better than after the accident.”
His expression darkened instantly, shadows sweeping over his face. I hadn’t meant to bring that up, but it worked, because he leaned closer, utterly focused.
“Sometimes,” I continued in my most pitiful voice, “whenever my heart feels… stressed… it’s like I might faint. And I didn’t like the idea of you leaving. I’m sorry for disrupting your trip…”
He shook his head firmly, cutting me off before guilt could ruin my Oscar-worthy performance. “That doesn’t matter. All that matters is that I have you here, and you’re alright.”
Something inside my chest went molten.
God, this man was buried so deep in my heart, there wasn’t a force alive that could dig him out.
Without another word, he stretched out beside me on the bed, his arms wrapping around me as though to shield me from the world. His lips brushed my temple, his voice a low rumble against my skin. “You scared me, baby girl.”
I burrowed closer, guilt pricking again at the edges of my chest, but… handbag. And also—his body was so warm, so solid, so safe. I couldn’t give that up.
The day drifted by in a haze of indulgence. Maria brought food on a tray, and before I could even reach for it, Ronny was already cutting bites, holding the fork to my lips like I was the most delicate creature alive. I almost cracked when he dabbed the corner of my mouth with a napkin, his face all seriousness.
“You don’t have to—” I started.
“Yes, I do.” His tone brooked no argument.
Alright, then. If my punishment for faking was being spoon-fed like a baby princess, I’d take it. Happily.
We watched a movie together that afternoon, me nestled against his chest, his arm tucked protectively around my waist. I barely paid attention to the screen. All I could focus on was the steady rise and fall of his breathing, the warmth of his body against mine, the intoxicating manly scent of his cologne clinging to his shirt. Every time I shifted slightly, he adjusted too, keeping me wrapped tight like I might slip away if he loosened his grip.
And I loved it.
Loved him.
As evening slipped into night, he still hadn’t left my side. Not once. He even refused to let me fetch a blanket myself, tugging it up to my chin and smoothing it over me with a look that made my chest ache.
By midnight, I was drifting in and out of sleep, warm and cocooned in his arms. The room was quiet except for his steady breaths and the faint hum of the clock on the nightstand.
12:00 a.m.
My eyes blinked open. His birthday.
I wanted to say it. Wanted to sing it. Wanted to shout Happy Birthday, you stubborn, impossible, perfect man! into the stillness.
But he hated it. He hated birthdays. And maybe—just maybe—I could keep my plan alive if I played it smart.
So instead, I whispered it inside my head, the words bursting like fireworks against the walls of my skull. Happy birthday, Ronny.
I leaned forward, pressing my lips to his softly, reverently, a secret gift only I knew I was giving.
He stirred, eyes opening in the dim light, confusion flickering in them. “What was that for?”
I just smiled against his mouth, burying my face in his chest so he couldn’t see the triumph sparking in my eyes.
Because he was here.
He hadn’t gone to Switzerland.
And tomorrow—oh, tomorrow—I would finally celebrate his birthday.
Victory was mine.
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