Over the next few days, he stayed by my bedside, taking care of me without a break, playing the role of a devoted husband. To anyone watching, it would seem like he was deeply in love.
But on the day I was discharged, his real intentions came out.
As he sat peeling an apple with a fruit knife, he asked, almost casually, "Have you thought it over?"
I looked at him, caught off guard, but before I could even ask what he meant, he clarified, and his words made my chest tighten.
"I mean, for the competition. Could you possibly help Kate—"
The second he said "Kate," I cut him off. "You know, if you're so eager to help her, find someone else. I'm sure there are plenty of pottery artists willing."
He frowned, clearly troubled. "No, Kate said your style is the only one close enough to hers," he insisted. "Plus, your work won't raise any suspicions with the experts."
I stared at him, feeling utterly drained.
Seeing my silence, Ryan only dug in further. "I told you, you're the only one who could help her. It has to be you. Nobody can know she's using a ghost artist."
I let him finish without interrupting, but my silence didn't mean I was on board with his plan.