Third Person POV.

Meanwhile, four days after the accident, the VIP sat across from Dr. Martin in the psychiatrist's office. He was noticeably quieter and more distracted than usual.

He was the same man who had pulled Ella from the wreckage and carried her to safety before ordering his driver to get them both to the hospital. Yet for some reason, the image of the injured woman hadn't quite left his mind.

His fingers tapped slowly against his thigh as his eyes remained fixed on the clock on the wall.

Dr. Martin had noticed the difference in his expression from the moment he walked through the door. He had been treating him for years, long enough to know when something was bothering him, even when he refused to admit it himself.

And lately, there had been plenty of things he refused to talk about.

“You’re unusually quiet today,” Dr. Martin finally said, pulling him out of his thoughts.

His fingers stopped tapping, and the corner of his mouth twitched.

“I’m always quiet.”

“Uhmm… true. But not like this.”

The VIP glanced around the office before looking back at him.

“What now? You want me to entertain you?”

“I wouldn't mind.” Dr. Martin adjusted his glasses and rested his arms on the desk. “... but we both know you're not very entertaining.”

“You're not very funny either, but you don't see me complaining.”

Martin smirked. “I'm hilarious. You just don't have a sense of humor.”

“C’mon, you know I do. I just don't waste it on psychiatrists.”

‘Ouch.” Martin pressed a hand to his chest. “And here I was thinking we had something special.”

The VIP finally let out a quiet chuckle.

Dr. Martin's office was probably the one place in Stormwolf Pack where he could let his guard down, even if only for a little while. He knew seeing the Doctor today would at least buy him a few nights of decent sleep, even if it wouldn't last for long.

“You seem distracted. Like your mind is somewhere else.”

The VIP was quiet for a moment. “Maybe it is.”

Martin raised an eyebrow. “That's new. You usually tell me to mind my own business.” He leaned forward, clasping his hands together. “So, are you going to tell me what’s on your mind?”

“I didn't say there was anything on my mind. I said maybe.”

“You didn't have to say it. Your face already did.”

“My face doesn't say anything.”

“Your face says a lot. Right now, it says you've been thinking about someone, and you're terrified I'm going to figure out who it is.”

“Terrified?” The VIP scoffed. “You're not that scary, Martin. You need to focus, this is not why I pay you.”

“You pay me to listen.”

“And you're not doing a very good job of it right now.”

Martin sighed. “You know, for someone who pays me to listen, you make it incredibly difficult to do my job.”

The VIP smirked but said nothing. His gaze wandered around the room again. The old paintings, the heavy wooden shelves, the dark furniture… Everything about the place screamed old-fashioned. But then again, what else could he possibly expect from a psychiatrist?

The room went quiet for a moment. Martin picked up his tablet and opened the VIP’s chart, scrolling through it before setting it down with a soft sigh. He leaned back in his chair, his glasses sitting low on his nose as he studied him.

It was the same look he always wore when it was time to stop joking around and get serious.

Dr. Martin had never been impressed or intimidated by the VIP’s title, his money, or anything else that usually made people in Stormwolf careful around him.

“You missed your last three appointments,” he said evenly.

“Some things came up.”

Martin gave him a stare… the kind that said he'd heard that excuse a hundred times before.

“Something always comes up.”

He tapped his pen against the desk a few times before looking back at him. “When was the last time you had a full night's sleep?”

The VIP didn't answer right away. Instead, a quiet, humorless chuckle slipped out of him.

“You're asking questions you already know the answers to.”

Dr. Martin leaned forward. “I’m asking because I'm hoping one day the answer changes.”

The VIP didn't respond. His eyes settled on the framed diploma hanging behind Dr. Martin, but his mind wasn't really there. He was trying to remember the last time he’d actually slept through an entire night without waking up covered in cold sweat.

“You're still having the nightmares?”

His jaw tightened and he looked away.

“Every damn time I close my eyes.” He paused, forcing himself to continue. “It's getting worse.”

Dr. Martin said nothing for a moment. He lowered his gaze to the paper file in front of him and began writing. For a few seconds, the only sound in the room was the scratch of his pen against the paper.

“This kind of trauma doesn't just disappear on its own,” he said quietly. “It's been thirteen years.”

The VIP barely reacted.

“I need the dosage increased,” he said finally. “The last one isn't working anymore.”

Martin studied his face. He knew that look… that desperate search for a quick fix, something that would make the problem disappear, even if it was temporary.

“You know you can't keep…”

“I didn't ask for a lecture, Martin.” His voice was flat now. “I asked for a prescription.”

Martin held his gaze for a long moment before sighing and scribbling something on a paper.

“For someone who scares half the people in this city, you're remarkably difficult to scare into taking care of yourself.”

The VIP shot him a look.

“Are you finished?”

“Almost.”

Martin tore out the prescription and held it out to him.

“You'll keep taking the medication as prescribed. I'll increase the dosage for now, but don't make a habit of coming back only when you can't handle it anymore.”

The VIP took the prescription and nodded, barely listening.

“And please,” Martin added, looking up at him, “don't wait another three months before you see me again.”

The VIP rose from his seat and straightened his shirt.

“I'll do my best.”

Dr. Martin stood as well.

The VIP extended his hand and Martin shook it.

“Take care of yourself, sir.”

Dr. Martin gave him a slight bow, just enough to acknowledge his position without making a spectacle of it. The VIP watched him for a moment, then a small smile tugged at his lips.

He reached out and gave Dr. Martin’s shoulder a light tap.

“You too.”

He was about to turn toward the door when it opened. The VIP’s Beta, Marcus, stepped inside, moving quickly but keeping his expression carefully blank. He came straight to the VIP's side and lowered his voice.

“Sir... you should see this.”

He handed him a tablet. The VIP took it and walked toward the office window, Marcus following a few steps behind him.

His eyes scanned the screen, but the headline caught his attention first:

“SCANDAL ROCKS ALPHA'S HOUSE: LUNA RHAELLA HAMMOND EXPOSED IN SHOCKING AFFAIR AND SUSPECTED ABORTION ATTEMPT.”

He scrolled down and found a photograph beneath the headline: reporters surrounding a man, none other than Jason Blackwood. The VIP stared at the image, his eyes settling on the pretentious expression on Jason's face.

His grip tightened slightly around the tablet, and something cold settled deep in his chest. He turned toward the window, staring at the city lights of Stormwolf.

“Has she woken up?” he asked quietly.

Marcus hesitated. “Sir?”

“The woman from the crash,” he said, still facing the window.

Understanding crossed Marcus's face. “Yes, sir. She woke up this morning. The doctor says she's stable.”

He nodded slowly, still not turning around to face him.

“And the babies?”

This time, Marcus didn't respond immediately and that gave him the answer. He’d seen the sonogram in her car, the blood on her gown. And even while she was unconscious, the way she'd clutched her stomach as though she could somehow protect the babies from whatever had happened.

His fingers curled tightly at his side.

“Well?”

Marcus dropped his voice even lower. “She lost them, sir. Both of them. There was nothing the doctors could do.”

He didn't answer. For a moment, he just stood there, staring at nothing. His hand moved unconsciously to his chest before he finally turned away from the window. Whatever warmth that had been in his eyes was completely gone now.

“Jason Blackwood…”

He muttered quietly, almost to himself. “You’re still the same.”

His jaw tightened.

“After all these years, you haven't changed at all.”

He handed the tablet back to Marcus and walked out of the office without another word.