For two full days, she drifted in and out of delirium, her body burning and trembling, her mind trapped in a fog.
When she finally opened her eyes again, she found herself not in a hospital—but in a dark, damp room on the first floor of Kevin's villa.
The air was heavy with the scent of disinfectant and mold.
Kevin sat beside her bed, adjusting her IV drip. His expression eased when he saw her awake.
"Venice," he said softly, "your fever has finally gone down. The pneumonia is under control. The doctor came earlier—just rest for a couple more days, and you'll be fine."
Venice tried to speak, but not a sound came out. Once, her muteness had been an act. Now, it was real.
Kevin touched her forehead gently, his voice calm and almost tender. "The fever and infection inflamed your throat badly. But since you couldn't talk before anyway, it doesn't change much, does it?"
For the next two days, he never mentioned what had happened at the villa.
He stayed by her side constantly—personally cooking porridge, cooling it with his breath before feeding her; waking up at every rustle she made at night; even holding her in his arms while the doctor gave her injections, whispering soft reassurances.
But on the third day, he changed.
He ordered his men to keep watch over her day and night, forbidding her from stepping outside the villa—not even once.
"Just in case you decide to cause trouble again," he said coldly before leaving.
After that, he threw himself entirely into the preparations for his engagement banquet.
Venice merely sat by the window, her face devoid of emotion, watching the days crawl by.
Then, one quiet evening, her phone buzzed—its ringtone shattering the silence.
"Venice," came her father's familiar voice, warm and steady. "I've landed safely in Los Angeles."
"I've already spoken with Adam. He'll be waiting for you tomorrow at the Pearl Tower."
"Oh, and I brought your wedding gown—the one you chose for yourself back then."
Venice's fingers tightened around the phone, trembling slightly. "That's good, Dad. But... I've run into a bit of trouble here."
Her father had been away from Los Angeles for years; many of his old connections had gone cold. It took time and effort to pull enough strings.
By six o'clock the next morning—the day of the wedding—her father, Ronald, finally broke into the villa with a group of men, pushing past layers of guards to take his daughter away.