Chapter 333
On the roof, a sudden gust of wind knocked over a metal stanchion left by a maintenance crew. It clattered loudly on the concrete.
Eliza turned.
“Hello?” she called out. “Is someone there?”
On the screen, Dallas instinctively shrank back against his bed, as if she could see him through the camera, through the walls, through the city itself. He couldn’t let her find him. Not like this — broken, helpless. If she saw him, she would know. She would come back. And the killers would find her.
He held his breath, the strain sending a fresh wave of agony tearing through his abdomen.
The roof access door banged open.
“Eliza!” Anson ran out.
He saw her by the ledge. He rushed forward and pulled her back into a crushing hug.
“My god,” Anson sobbed. “Don’t do that. Don’t leave me.”
Eliza stood stiffly in his arms. She looked over Anson’s shoulder, squinting into the darkness.
“I heard something,” she whispered.
“It’s just the wind,” Anson said, stroking her hair. “Come inside. I’ve got you. I’ll never let you go.”
Eliza let herself be led away.
Dallas watched them go on the monitor. He watched Anson hold his wife. He watched Anson provide the comfort he couldn’t give.
When the door clicked shut on the screen, Dallas let out a sound of pure, silent agony. He pounded his fist against the bed rail again and again until his knuckles were raw.
Vance found him ten minutes later — monitors screaming, a fresh bloom of red soaking through the bandages on his stomach.
“You stubborn son of a bitch,” Vance swore, injecting a sedative into his IV line.
Three days later. Koch Manor.
Dallas sat in the library, staring at the fireplace. He was pale and gaunt, but alive.
He had discharged himself against medical advice. The penthouse was compromised. The manor was a fortress.
The door opened. Two large security guards dragged Azalea in. She was kicking and screaming.
“Let me go! You fascist pigs!”
They deposited her on the rug.
Azalea scrambled to her feet, her face twisted with fury. “You liar! You told me you were going to tell her the truth! You told me we were going to fix this!”
“Plans changed,” Dallas said calmly. He polished his gun with a cloth.
“I’m going to tell her,” Azalea shouted. She pulled out her phone. “I’m texting her right now. I’m telling her you’re a martyr idiot and she needs to come save you!”
“Azalea,” Dallas said.
He didn’t raise his voice. He just raised the gun, then set it on the table with a heavy thud.
Azalea froze.
“If you send that text,” Dallas said, his voice ice cold, “I will have you on a plane to a therapeutic boarding school in Switzerland by morning. No phone, no internet, no contact with anyone but your approved counselors until you finish your degree. Every project you love, every friend you have — gone. I will erase your life here.”
“You wouldn’t,” Azalea whispered.