Chapter 306
“I’m going to win your Ferrari back,” Eliza said, her voice firm, as she adjusted the straps of her racing bra. “And I’m going to win back the Solomon Gallery. Anson thinks he knows my price. He thinks I’m a pawn. He’s wrong.” She looked at her reflection in the full-length mirror, a fierce resolve hardening her features. “I’m doing this for all of us. For Dallas, who deserves to see Anson lose. For my mother, whose legacy he’s dangled like bait. For myself, to prove I can fight on my own terms.”
Dallas sat in his wheelchair a few feet away. His tablet was balanced on his knee, the screen glowing with market data he wasn’t reading. His eyes were fixed on Eliza — specifically on the way her hand rested on the curve of her own waist, a gesture of steely determination. The sight of her in that suit, a warrior preparing for battle, ignited a familiar, painful pride in him.
He didn’t blink. His jaw was set so hard a muscle feathered beneath his ear.
Zane Sterling walked in from the kitchen, holding two iced americanos. He paused, looking from Dallas to Eliza, then sighed. He walked over and pressed a cold cup into Dallas’s hand.
“She’s just getting ready,” Zane murmured, his voice low enough that only Dallas could hear. “That is your daughter and your wife. Not a threat.”
Dallas didn’t look at him. He took a sip of the coffee, the bitterness matching his mood.
“I know what it is,” Dallas said. His voice was flat, devoid of inflection, which made it more dangerous. “It’s a reminder. A reminder of the life they should have, without me at the center of it, dragging them into danger. And a reminder of what Anson stole.”
Zane leaned against the wall, crossing his arms. “That’s not what they see. Azalea is the best shield she has. Isn’t that the excuse you used to get us to the track today? That Azalea wanted to go?”
Dallas didn’t answer. He set the cup down on a side table with a little too much force. He watched Eliza prepare with a genuine, unguarded focus he hadn’t seen directed at him in weeks. The sight of it didn’t ignite jealousy — it carved a hollow space in his gut. It was a glimpse into a world where she was free, unburdened by his darkness. Every moment she spent rebuilding her own world, with her own allies, was a moment she was growing strong enough to survive without him. That was the goal. But the process was agonizing.
He needed her isolated to keep her safe. He needed her dependent on him, not on the fleeting loyalty of a teenage girl.
No, he thought. Azalea needed a distraction — something all-consuming that would pull her focus from Eliza. He had even tried to float the idea to Zane earlier.
“Okay, I’m ready,” Eliza announced. She stepped away from the closet and turned toward them.
The air left Dallas’s lungs.
She was wearing a white racing suit. It was professional grade, fire-retardant, and functional. It was also tailored — clinging to her waist, the curve of her hips, the line of her legs. She had pulled her dark hair back into a high ponytail that exposed the long, elegant line of her neck.
She looked like a weapon.