Chapter 350
“Or,” Jeannine said carefully, “he wants to make sure you have a salary and health insurance, since you refused his money.”
Eliza laughed bitterly. “Don’t defend him, Jeannine. He’s a monster.”
“Maybe,” Jeannine sighed. “But you’re staying. Unless you want to be sued. I’ve already had our legal team review your case. It’s airtight. He’d win.”
Eliza grabbed the letter back. “Fine. I’ll stay. Then I’ll sue him for creating a hostile work environment. I will make this place a living hell for him.”
She stormed out.
Jeannine picked up her phone and dialed.
“She’s staying,” Jeannine said. “But she hates you, Dallas. She really hates you.”
𝗠оs𝘁 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥 t𝗁is 𝗐ее𝗄 o𝗇 𝗀а𝗅n𝗈𝘷𝗲lѕ.𝗰𝗈𝘮
“Good,” Dallas’s voice came through, weak and distant. “Keep her busy. Keep her safe.”
Vinnie Sharpe sat in his car, lights off, watching the rear exit of the exclusive members-only club. He knew Dallas came here for meetings that couldn’t be held at S&D.
The door opened. Weston pushed Dallas out in his wheelchair.
Dallas looked worse than he had at the base. He was slumped forward, his head lolling slightly. As Weston maneuvered the chair over the curb, Dallas’s body went slack, his head falling back against the headrest in a clear spasm of pain. Weston, startled, nearly lost his grip before hoisting Dallas into the waiting SUV.
In that brief, jarring moment, something small and white slipped from the inner pocket of Dallas’s jacket. It fluttered to the wet pavement, landing half in a puddle — unnoticed.
The SUV door slammed. They drove off.
Vinnie waited a beat, then ran over. He picked up the object.
It was a small, passport-sized photograph, worn at the edges as though it had been held a thousand times.
It was Eliza. She was smiling, windblown, standing in front of the rose garden.
Vinnie flipped it over. On the back, in Dallas’s sharp, angular handwriting, were two words:
My Life.
Vinnie felt a lump in his throat. “You lying son of a bitch,” he whispered.
If Dallas loved Yvonne, why carry this? Why label it My Life?
Vinnie pulled out his phone and dialed Dr. Vance.
“Vance,” Vinnie barked. “I know you’re his doctor. Cut the crap. What is wrong with him?”
“Patient confidentiality, Vinnie,” Vance said tiredly.
“I’m holding a photo of Eliza that he just dropped,” Vinnie said. “He can barely walk. If you don’t tell me, I’m going to Eliza. I’m going to tell her everything I suspect.”
Silence on the line.
“Heart failure,” Vance finally said. “Severe. His heart is operating at twenty percent capacity. The stress of the divorce is killing him faster.”
“Is there a fix?”
“An experimental surgery,” Vance said. “A total artificial heart transplant. But he refuses. He won’t sign the surgical consent forms. He says he deserves to die.”
“I’m coming over,” Vinnie said. “We’re going to save him, whether he likes it or not.”
Eliza walked into her lab the next morning, ready to bury herself in work.
She stopped.
.
.