Chapter 322
“No,” Dallas said. “But it’s the only way to make sure she doesn’t follow me. And the only way to make sure she never forgives me.”
The elevator doors opened. Dallas rolled out into the private garage, leaving the penthouse silent behind him.
Minutes later, the private elevator chimed and opened into the foyer. Anson Hyde stepped out, leaning heavily on a cane, his left leg encased in a sleek black brace. He surveyed the silent, opulent space with a possessive air. He had bypassed the doorman with a hefty bribe and the elevator security with a code coerced from a terrified building manager.
“You can wait by the elevator,” he told his security guard, who nodded and stayed by the door. “Koch is gone. She’s alone.”
A woman in a sharp suit — Lena — stepped out from the hallway and blocked his path. “This is a restricted floor, Mr. Hyde. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
Anson laughed, a dry, ugly sound. “And you are?”
“Head of Mrs. Koch’s security detail,” she said, her hand resting near the firearm concealed beneath her jacket.
“How charming. Dallas runs off to war and leaves his wife with a babysitter,” Anson sneered. “Unfortunately for you, I happen to know the night manager is a gambling man with heavy debts. A call to my associates would be quite inconvenient for him. Now step aside, or your next assignment will be guarding a warehouse in Queens.”
Lena’s jaw tightened, but she knew he wasn’t bluffing. A legal confrontation would take hours, and her orders were to avoid a scene.
Anson pushed past her and limped toward the bedroom. He opened the door, settled into the chair beside the bed, and reached out to take Eliza’s limp hand in his.
“I told you,” Anson murmured to the sleeping woman. “He would leave you. I’m the only one who stays.”
Eliza woke with a gasp, her lungs searching for air that felt too thin.
Her head throbbed with a dull, rhythmic ache, the chemical aftertaste of the sedative coating her tongue. She sat up, the duvet falling from her shoulders. The light in the room was gray — morning, but bleak.
“Dallas!” she cried out, the memory of the glass of water crashing back into her mind.
“He’s not here.”
The voice came from the corner of the room.
Eliza whipped her head around. Anson was sitting in the velvet armchair, his bad leg stretched out stiffly in front of him. He was reading a magazine, looking entirely too comfortable.
“Anson?” Eliza scrambled backward, pressing herself against the headboard. “What are you doing here? Where is Dallas?”
“Gone,” Anson said, flipping a page. “He left last night. While you were sleeping.”
“He drugged me,” Eliza whispered, her voice trembling with rage. She grabbed her phone from the nightstand. Dead. “He drugged me and left me with you?”
“He didn’t leave you with me,” Anson corrected, his voice laced with amusement. “He abandoned you. I, on the other hand, found my way here. He called in a guard dog, but my leash is bigger.”