Chapter 104:


    Address the chaos you’ve created.


    Heughed — a dark, terrible sound.


    He raised the phone, his thumb hovering over the camera icon. He wanted to photograph the bloody doors. He wanted to text back: She’s in surgery, you monster.


    He stopped.


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    No.


    Knowledge was power. If Grayson knew she was hurt, he might pretend to care. He might spin it. He might y the grieving husband.


    Let him be ignorant. Let him dig his own grave.


    And deleted the text. Then he went into the contacts, found Target, and selected Block Caller.


    He put the phone in his pocket.


    A doctor came through the doors, pulling off a surgical cap.


    “Family of Isolde Carson?”


    “I’m her partner,” And said.


    “She’s stable,” the doctor said.


    And released a breath. “But the damage to the wrist was severe. The drone propeller acted like a saw. We reconnected the tendons and the nerve, but…”


    “But what?”


    “There is significant scarring. And motor function — it’s going to be a long road. Fine motor skills, like writing or drawing, may never fully recover.”


    And felt a cold weight settle in his chest. Isolde was an engineer. Her hands were her life.


    “Does she know?”


    “Not yet. She’s in recovery.”


    Across town, in a plush VIP suite at Lenox Hill, Grayson stared at his phone and frowned.


    “She’s not replying,” he said.


    Belle sat beside him, eating a bowl of cut melon with her supposedly injured hand. “She’s probably sulking. She loves the drama.”


    “She ignored me,” Grayson said, his face darkening. “Stone is filing his motions this afternoon. She thinks she can hide.”


    He looked toward the door. “Sarah!”


    His assistant appeared in the doorway. “Yes, Mr. Lancaster?”


    “Call the bank. Tell them to g Carson Dynamics’ ounts for suspicious activity. Use the SkyLine credit risk department. I want their supply chain credit paralyzed by morning. She needs to learn that actions have consequences.”


    “But sir,” Sarah hesitated. “That’s… her mother’spany.”


    “Do it!” Grayson roared. “Before herwyers freeze us, we freeze her.”


    Isolde woke to the smell of antiseptic and the rhythmic beeping of a monitor.


    Her left arm was heavy. She looked down. It was encased in thick ster from her knuckles to her elbow.


    Pain throbbed in time with her heartbeat.


    “You’re awake.”


    And was sitting in the chair beside the bed. He looked exhausted, his shirt rumpled and stained.


    Isolde tried to move her fingers. They were stiff. Unresponsive.


    Panic red in her chest.


    “My hand,” she rasped. “And… can I move it?”


    And took her right hand in both of his. “The surgery went well. But there was tendon damage. You’re going to need therapy.”


    “Will I draw again?”


    And hesitated. That pause told her everything.


    “We don’t know yet.”


    Isolde closed her eyes. A tear slipped free. Sophia. Her designs. Her delicate, precise sketches.


    “Where is Effie?”


    “Asleep on the cot in the corner. She’s safe.”


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