Chapter 4

The Morning After

The sunlight in New York doesn't filter in gently; it stabs. It poked through the gap in my curtains, landing right on my eyelids until I had no choice but to face the reality of my new life. My leg felt like it had been replaced by a lead pipe overnight—heavy, cold, and throbbing. I reached for the side of the bed, my hand fumbling for the familiar cold metal of my crutches, but my fingers met empty air. Right. The kitchen. The fall. The... jerk.

Panic flared for a second before I remembered Jax carrying me. My face heated up just thinking about it. He had dumped me like a sack of potatoes, yet his arms had felt like solid marble. I shook the thought away. He was a pig with p*rn magazines and a "common bathroom" complex. I hopped on my good leg to the door, unlocked it, and peered out. There, leaning against the wall right next to my door frame, were my crutches. He must have brought them back after I locked the door.

"Don't let it get to your head, Grace," I whispered to myself, gripping the foam handles. "He probably just didn't want you crawling around and ruining his 'aesthetic'."

I made my way to the kitchen, desperate for caffeine. I expected to find the apartment empty, but the smell of burnt toast and expensive cologne told me otherwise. Jax was hunched over the small dining table, his back to me. He was dressed for the day—a dark leather jacket thrown over a grey hoodie.

"The coffee is drinkable. The toast is a casualty of war," he said without turning around.

"How did you know I was there?" I snapped, annoyed that I couldn't even sneak up on him with my 'stealthy' crutches.

He turned then, and the dark circles under his grey eyes told me he’d had a night just as restless as mine. He didn't smirk this time. He just watched me navigate the two steps into the kitchen area with an unreadable expression.

"You're not exactly a ninja, Eggplant," he muttered, though the bite was missing from his voice. He pushed a mug toward the edge of the table. "We need to talk about the rules."

I sat down across from him, bracing myself. "Rules. Great. Rule number one: Wear a shirt in common areas. Rule number two: No 'friends' over after midnight. Rule number—"

"Rule number one," Jax interrupted, leaning forward until I could see the flecks of silver in his eyes. "Don't look at me with those 'thank you for carrying me' eyes. I didn't do it for you. I did it because your whining was giving me a headache."

I bristled. "I wasn't whining! I was defending myself from a creep who thinks he's a gift to women."

"And rule number two," he continued, ignoring my outburst. He reached into his jacket pocket and tossed a small, crumpled piece of paper on the table. It was a schedule for the local community centre's physical therapy wing. "If you're going to be my roommate, you’re going to be a functional one. I don't do 'damsel in distress'."

I looked at the paper, then at him. The audacity of this man. He didn't know my history, my pain, or the two years I'd spent wishing I could just disappear.

"I don't need your help, Jax. And I certainly don't need you to manage my recovery."

"Good," he said, standing up and grabbing his keys. He paused at the door, his hand on the knob. He looked back, his gaze dropping briefly to my leg before snapping back to my eyes. "Because in this city, Grace, nobody cares if you can't walk properly. They’ll just walk over you. Decide if you’re a floor mat or a fighter."

The door slammed shut behind him. I stared at the burnt toast, my hands shaking. I wanted to scream at him. I wanted to throw the mug at the door. But mostly, I wanted to know why a guy who acted like he hated the sight of my crutches was the only person who hadn't looked at me with pity.

**

The burnt toast sat cold on the table, a jagged reminder of the man who had just insulted my dignity while simultaneously saving my morning. I didn't eat it. Instead, I channelled every ounce of my irritation into getting ready. If Jax Dias thought I was a "floor mat," he was about to realise I was made of reinforced steel.

The commute to the New York Institute of Commerce was a nightmare of subway gaps and judgmental stares. In my old life, I glided through the world. Now, every flight of stairs was a mountain, every closing subway door a predator. By the time I reached the grand, limestone steps of the college, my armpits were sore from the crutches, and my forehead was damp. I checked my schedule: Advanced Macroeconomics—room 402.

I took the elevator—a slow, rattling box that smelled of floor wax—and navigated the hallway. I wanted to be invisible, but the rhythmic thump-click, thump-click of my crutches announced my arrival like a drumroll. I pushed open the heavy oak doors of the lecture hall. The room was a steep amphitheatre, already buzzing with the elite energy of New York’s future CEOs. I scanned the rows for an end seat.

And then I saw him.

Jax was sitting near the front, looking infuriatingly composed. Gone was the hungover mess from the kitchen. He wore a crisp black polo that made his shoulders look even broader, and he was spinning a silver pen between his fingers with hypnotic precision. The professor, a sharp-featured woman named Dr Sterling, stood at the podium. "Find a seat, Miss...?"

"Williams. Grace Williams," I said, my voice steadier than I felt.

"Welcome, Grace. Take a seat. We were just discussing the competitive entry exam for the Chancellor’s Internship. Only one student from this seminar will be selected."

The room felt heavy. This wasn't just a class; it was a battlefield. This internship was the reason I had moved here—it was the ticket to the financial stability my mother deserved. As I manoeuvred into a seat at the end of the third row, Jax’s head turned. His grey eyes locked onto mine. There was no "Sweet Cheeks" smirk here. His expression was cold, professional, and—strangely—focused.

"To kick things off," Dr Sterling announced, "we'll start with a diagnostic challenge. Based on the data on the screen, who can identify the primary fiscal leak in the 2024 tech-sector bubble?"

Silence fell over the room. The data was a mess of Greek symbols and convoluted spreadsheets. I felt a spark in my brain—the one part of me that wasn't broken. This was math. This was logic. My hand shot up at the exact same time as Jax's.

Dr Sterling looked between us, a predatory smile on her lips. "Mr Dias. Let’s hear your take."

Jax didn't even look at the screen. He recited the answer like he had written the code himself. "It wasn't a fiscal leak, Doctor. It was an over-leveraged hedge in the semiconductor market. Specifically, a $14 billion gap in unrealised capital gains."

"Impressive," Sterling murmured.

"He's wrong," I said, the words out of my mouth before I could stop them.

The entire class turned. Jax stiffened, his silver pen stopping mid-rotation. He turned his head slowly, his eyes narrowed.

"The gap wasn't $14 billion," I continued, leaning forward. "If you account for the late-quarter inflation adjustment on page six of the report, the actual discrepancy was $11.2 billion. The rest was a tax-shielded shell. He missed the fine print."

The silence was deafening. Jax stared at me, his jaw tightening so hard I thought I heard it click. For the first time, he didn't look at my crutches. He didn't look at my "embarrassing walk." He looked at my mind.

Dr. Sterling checked her notes, her eyebrows climbing toward her hairline. "She's right. Excellent catch, Miss Williams."

As the lecture ended an hour later, the room exploded into chatter. I tried to gather my bag quickly, wanting to beat the crowd to the elevator, but my movements were sluggish. A shadow fell over my desk.

"You've got a big mouth for someone who can barely stand up," Jax’s voice dropped low, meant only for me. He was standing over me, his presence suffocating.

"And you've got a big ego for someone who can't read a footnote," I retorted, pulling my crutches into position.

He leaned in, his scent—that mix of cedar and cold air—filling my senses. "That internship? It’s mine, Grace. I don’t care how much 'pity' you think you can milk from the faculty. In this room, you’re just a number. And I’m always number one."

"Is that why you brought my crutches to my door last night?" I whispered, looking him dead in the eye. "Because you were worried about your competition?"

His eyes flashed—not with anger, but with something that looked suspiciously like a challenge. He leaned closer, his lips inches from my ear.

"I brought them because I wanted you to have no excuses when I beat you."

With a sharp turn, he vanished into the crowd of students, leaving me breathless and more determined than ever.

**

The atmosphere in the bustling hallway shifted the moment I stepped out of the lecture hall. The thump-click of my crutches, which had felt like a battle cry inside the classroom, now felt like a target on my back. A group of three guys—the kind who wore designer watches and treated the world like their personal country club—were leaning against the lockers, waiting for Jax. Among them was Liam, a guy with a sharp jawline and an even sharper tongue.

As I manoeuvred past them, trying to keep my balance on the polished marble floor, the whispering started. It wasn’t quiet; it was that pointed, deliberate stage-whisper designed to cut.

"Check it out," Liam snickered, nudging the guy next to him. "Is that the new 'genius' from class? I thought I heard a rhythmic tapping. Thought maybe the building’s pipes were bursting, but it’s just the broken doll."

"God, it’s painful to watch," another one added, a cruel smirk playing on his lips. "How does she even expect to work on Wall Street? You have to be fast to survive, and she’s moving in slow motion. Does the internship come with a handicap ramp now?"

Liam let out a short, bark-like laugh. "Maybe she’s hoping for the 'pity' vote. Look at that limp. It’s like watching a glitch in a video game."

I felt the blood rush to my face. I kept my eyes fixed on the floor, my knuckles whitening as I gripped the handles of my crutches. Don't cry. Do not let them see you cry. Jax stepped out of the classroom just as the comments hit their peak. He stopped right next to Liam, adjusting the strap of his messenger bag. He stood a full head taller than his friends, his presence naturally drawing the centre of gravity toward him.

I froze for a split second, my breath hitching. I looked up at him, my heart hammering against my ribs. I don't know what I was expecting—a shut-up? A glare? Even a smirk would have been better than what I got. Jax looked at me. His grey eyes were like polished stone—flat, cold, and entirely unreadable. He didn't look at Liam, and he didn't look at my leg.

"You guys coming?" he asked, his voice bored and steady. He pulled out his phone, scrolling through a notification as if the conversation around him were nothing more than white noise.

"Come on, Jax," Liam prompted, leaning in with a conspiratorial grin. "You’re not going to let a girl who can't even walk straight take your top spot, are you? It’s embarrassing for the rest of us."

Jax finally shifted his gaze to Liam, then briefly back to me. He didn't tell them to stop. He didn't defend me. He simply shrugged, his expression a mask of pure nonchalance.

"Why would I care how she walks?" Jax said, his voice echoing in the hallway. "Her legs don't do the math. As for the rest of it... It's just noise."

He started walking away, his stride long and effortless. He didn't look back to see me standing there, my skin burning, not from the boys' insults, but from his cold indifference. To Jax, I wasn't someone to be protected, but I also wasn't someone to be pitied. I was just... there.

The other guys laughed, following Jax like a pack of wolves, throwing one last mocking glance over their shoulders. I stood alone in the thinning crowd, the sting of their laughter sharp, but the weight of Jax's coldness felt much heavier. He hadn't joined in, but he hadn't stopped it either. In Jax’s world, you fought your own battles, broken or not. My "roommate" wasn't my ally—he was just a witness to my humiliation.

I needed to get out of that hallway before my shaky breathing turned into a full-blown sob. I pushed through the heavy exit doors, the thump-click of my crutches echoing against the concrete as I found a relatively quiet courtyard tucked away from the main campus flow.

I sat down on a stone bench, resting my crutches beside me. My leg was screaming, but the ache in my chest was worse. It’s just noise, Jax had said. My struggle was like a static hum he could just tune out.

"Um, hey. Are you okay? You look like you’re about to set that bench on fire with your mind."

I jumped, nearly knocking my crutches over. Standing a few feet away was a guy who looked like he had stepped straight out of a cosy indie movie. He had messy sandy-brown hair, a soft jawline, and eyes that were a warm, honey-gold. He was wearing a slightly oversized knitted sweater and carried a sketchbook under his arm. He didn't look at me with the sharp, predatory intensity of Jax, or the cruel mockery of Liam. He looked... worried.

"I'm fine," I said, quickly wiping my eyes and pulling my shoulders back. "Just a long day."

"First days in the city are brutal," he said, offering a small, boyish smile that revealed a slight dimple. He stepped closer, but stayed far enough away to respect my space. "I’m Taylor. I’m in the Architecture wing, but I come over here because the Economics building has better light for sketching. And, uh, fewer people who look like they want to eat me alive."

I couldn't help it—a tiny, reluctant laugh escaped me. "I’m Grace. And yeah, the sharks are definitely circling today."

"Well, Grace," Taylor said, shifting his weight nervously. He seemed almost gullible in his earnestness, like he hadn't yet learned to be cynical like everyone else in New York. "If it helps, I think you have a really cool aesthetic. Very 'warrior-chic'."

He gestured vaguely toward my crutches, but he didn't look at them with pity. He looked at them like they were just a part of my gear.

"Warrior-chic?" I arched a brow. "Is that what we're calling it now?"

"Hey, it beats 'stagnant,' right?" He grinned, and for the first time since I landed in NYC, the knot in my stomach loosened just a bit. "Do you want some water? Or a coffee? I was just heading to the cafe across the street. I hear they have muffins the size of human heads."

He was so soft, so genuinely kind, that it felt like a weird contrast to the sharp edges of my apartment and the cold steel of Jax’s personality. Taylor felt safe.

"A coffee sounds amazing," I admitted.

"Great! Let me..." He reached out as if to help me with my bag, then caught himself and blushed. "I mean, I can carry your bag? If you want? Or I can just walk really slowly and talk about how much I hate structural physics? Your call."

I smiled, a real one this time. "You can walk slowly and talk. I’ve got the bag."

As we started toward the gate, I caught a glimpse of a familiar dark leather jacket near the building entrance. Jax was standing there, leaning against a pillar, watching us. His face was a mask, but his eyes were narrowed, tracking Taylor as he chatted animatedly to me. For the first time today, I didn't look away. I let Taylor lead the way, feeling a strange surge of defiance.

The cafe was a world away from the cold, sterile hallways of the Institute. It smelled like roasted beans and cinnamon, and the low hum of indie folk music felt like a warm blanket. Taylor sat across from me, his oversized sweater sleeves nearly covering his hands as he cradled a massive latte.

**

"So, Grace Williams," he started, his honey-gold eyes bright with genuine curiosity. "Aside from being a math genius who terrifies the Econ department, who are you? Tell me the stuff that isn't on a transcript."

I leaned back, surprised by how easy it felt to talk to him. "I'm from a small town where everyone knows your business. My mom is my hero—she worked three jobs just to keep me afloat after... well, after my accident. I owe her everything."

"A fellow mom-fanatic," Taylor grinned, his dimple popping. "Mine is a florist back in Oregon. She sends me pressed flowers in the mail every week so I don’t forget 'what real colour looks like' in the concrete jungle."

We spent the next hour trading pieces of our lives like they were rare coins. Taylor was obsessed with old architecture and hated—absolutely hated—cilantro.

"It tastes like soap, Grace! It’s a genetic conspiracy," he insisted, making me laugh so hard my ribs hurt.

I told him about my love for old books and how I used to spend every waking second in a ballet studio. My voice faltered for a second when I mentioned the dancing, but Taylor didn't look away or offer that suffocating "I'm so sorry" tilt of the head. He just nodded.

"I get it," he said softly. "For me, it’s sketching. If I couldn't draw, I think I'd feel like a ghost. But hey, you’re here now. New York is for the ghosts who decided to come back to life, right?"

He was so gullible and sweet, believing in the best of everyone. It was the perfect antidote to Jax’s poison. By the time we finished our muffins, I felt lighter. Taylor didn’t see a "broken doll"; he saw a girl who was fighting back. Taylor walked me all the way to my building. "See you tomorrow, 'Warrior-Chic'?"

"Count on it, Taylor."

As I watched him wave and disappear around the corner, that warmth stayed with me. It turned into a slow-burning fire of confidence as I climbed the steps to my shabby apartment. I wasn't going to be the girl who cried on the sofa anymore. I pushed the door open. The lights were low, and the smell of expensive cologne and takeout hit me immediately. Jax was sprawled on the sofa, his laptop open, a half-eaten burger on the coffee table. He didn't even look up, but I knew he heard me.

"Back from your little playdate?" he drawled, his voice dripping with that familiar, bored arrogance. "I didn't know the Architecture department was handing out emotional support boyfriends today."

I didn't flinch. I didn't scowl. I walked right into the center of the room, my crutches clicking firmly against the hardwood.

"Move your legs, Jax," I said, my voice calm and ice-cold.

He paused, his fingers hovering over the keyboard. He looked up, his grey eyes narrowing as he took in the change in my posture. "Excuse me?"

"The coffee table. The mess. The attitude. It stops now," I said, standing my ground. "I am paying half the rent for this place. I am not your maid, I am not your 'eggplant,' and I am certainly not someone you get to ignore when your friends are being assholes in the hallway."

Jax closed his laptop slowly, sitting up. The nonchalance was still there, but there was a flicker of something else—surprise? "Is that so?"

"Yes. Rule number one: If you want to be a jerk, do it when I’m not in the room. Rule number two: Clean up after yourself. And rule number three..." I took a step closer, balancing perfectly on my crutches, looking him right in those sinful grey eyes. "If you ever mention Taylor or my 'playdates' again, I’ll show you exactly how hard this 'shield' of mine can hit. I'm not here for your pity, but I’m definitely not here for your disrespect."

The silence in the room was heavy. Jax stared at me for a long beat, his jaw working. For the first time, he didn't have a comeback. He looked at me—really looked at me—and I realized he wasn't seeing a "cripple." He was seeing a competitor.

"Fine," he muttered, reaching down and grabbing the burger wrapper from the table. "I like the fire, Grace. Just make sure you don't burn the house down."

I didn't give him the satisfaction of a response. I turned and headed for my room, my heart racing. I had set my boundaries. Now, the real game was beginning.