Chapter 278
Chapter 278:
The sight struck her like a physical blow, emptying her lungs. He hadn’t simply left. He had been taken. He was hurt. He was somewhere, and no one would tell her where.
She needed to find him. If Weston wouldn’t talk, she needed someone who couldn’t lie.
Dr. Vance. Dallas’s personal physician. If Dallas was injured, Vance would know.
Eliza wiped her face. She was not going to sit here and wait for divorce papers.
She was going to find him.
The art gallery was closed, the paintings shrouded in dust sheets. Zane paced back and forth, his footsteps echoing through the empty space.
“You can’t tell her,” Zane said sharply. “Dallas will kill us. He explicitly said no visitors. Especially her p>
Serena was packing a sculpture into a crate. She looked up, her expression fierce. “Zane, he’s in the ICU. He was calling her name when he was delirious — before the sedation kicked in p>
і𝘯𝘴𝘁a𝗇t 𝖺𝗰𝗰eѕ𝘀 𝗈𝗇
“He was calling her a liar,” Zane argued. “The doctors say he may never walk properly again. His leg is shattered. If he sees her — the woman who put him there — his blood pressure will spike. He could stroke out p>
“Maybe there’s an explanation,” Serena said quietly. “Eliza looked so confused that night. What if the video was fake p>
“It’s 4K video, Serena.” Zane threw his hands up. “I took it myself. Unless she has an evil twin, that was her p>
“I’m just saying,” Serena sealed the crate, “it feels wrong. Keeping a wife from her dying husband p>
“She’s not a wife,” Zane said. “She’s a widow. She just doesn’t know it yet p>
It was two in the morning. The city was asleep, but Eliza was wide awake.
She lay in the middle of the king bed, hugging Dallas’s pillow. It still smelled like him — sandalwood and rain.
She picked up her phone and opened their chat history. The last message was hers: Going now. She scrolled up past the photos from the rose garden, past the silly memes Azalea had sent to their group chat.
She pressed the call button.
She expected voicemail.
Ring… Ring… Ring…
It connected.
Eliza sat bolt upright. “Dallas p>
No voice. Just breathing — heavy and labored. And beneath it, in the background: beep… beep… beep. A rhythmic, mechanical sound. A heart monitor.
“Dallas? Is that you?” she cried. “Say something p>
A low groan came through the speaker. The sound of pure, unguarded pain.
Then rustling. A woman’s voice, brisk and professional. “Sir, you cannot have that. Give it to me. This is highly irregular p>
“No—” Dallas’s voice. Weak. Slurred. “El p>
“Sir, you need to rest. Your vitals are unstable. Dr. Vance, we need you in here — his pressure is dropping p>
The line went dead.
Eliza stared at the phone, her heart hammering so hard it hurt.
That wasn’t Siberia. That was a hospital. Dr. Vance — Dallas’s personal physician — worked exclusively out of the VIP wing at Lenox Hill.
He was here. He was hurt.
“You liar, Weston,” Eliza hissed, throwing back the covers.
Her phone rang in her hand. Anson.