Chapter 270

Chapter 270:

The morning sun was brutal, piercing through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse. Eliza sat on the edge of the sofa, holding a cold compress to Azalea’s forehead.

Dallas hadn’t come home.

Azalea groaned, shifting beneath the blanket. “My head is exploding. Why is the sun so loud p>

“You drank half a bottle of tequila,” Eliza said gently. “Drink the water p>

“Men are trash,” Azalea mumbled, sitting up and wincing. “Forrest left this morning. He texted me from the airport. ‘It’s better this way.’” She let out a hollow laugh. “Coward p>

𝗠о𝘀𝗍 r𝗲𝗮𝘥 𝘁𝗁𝗶𝘴 𝗐𝖾ek 𝗼𝘯.сo𝘮

She looked at Eliza with bloodshot eyes. “And Dad is trash too. Uncle Zane called me. He said Dad is destroying himself at his club. He said he’s not coming home p>

Eliza felt a chill that had nothing to do with the air conditioning. “What else did Zane say p>

Azalea hesitated, biting her lip. “He said… you’re not worth it. He said you’re a liar p>

Eliza stood up. “I need to find him p>

The doorbell rang — sharp and demanding. Eliza crossed to the door quickly, hoping, praying it was Dallas.

It was Zane.

He looked terrible. Unshaven and rigid, his usual easy manner replaced by a wall of hostility.

“Zane,” Eliza breathed. “Where is he? Is he okay p>

Zane didn’t answer. He reached into his jacket pocket, produced a cream-colored envelope, and pressed it against her chest.

“He told me to give you this p>

Eliza took it with trembling hands. She opened the flap.

It was an invitation. Heavy cardstock. Gold lettering.

Serena Q’s Gallery Presents: The Lost Works of Diana Solomon.

Eliza stared at it. Her mother’s art. The exhibition she had dreamed of. She frowned at the line below. Theme: Hidden Layers — The Unseen Art of Restoration. A strange subtitle. It sounded less like Serena and more like Anson’s penchant for melodrama. He must have insisted on it as a condition of his sponsorship.

“Why is he giving me this?” Eliza asked. “Is he coming p>

“He said,” Zane’s voice was thick with disdain, “that if you still remember who you are, you should go. But if you’re too busy playing the part of Anson Hyde’s woman, then stay home p>

“His woman?” Eliza recoiled as though she had been struck. “Zane, you know me. I’m his wife. I love him p>

“I thought I knew you,” Zane said coldly. “Until I saw the photo p>

“What photo?” Eliza demanded.

“Don’t play dumb.” Zane stepped back. “I’ll see you at the gallery tonight. And Eliza? If you bring Anson, I will break his jaw in front of the art critics.” He turned and walked toward the elevator.

“Zane!” Eliza called after him.

The doors slid shut.

She stood there, gripping the invitation. A photo. Anson had taken a photo. Of what? The milk scene? That wouldn’t be enough to cause this. She pulled out her phone and dialed Anson.

“Hello, sister,” he answered on the first ring.

“What did you send him?” Eliza demanded. “What lies are you spinning p>