Chapter 409
Julian leaned back. “The terms have changed, Eliza. Two hundred million is a lot to keep on standby. If you want me to hold that money for you, I need a public commitment.”
“What kind of commitment?”
“An engagement,” Julian said. “A real one — ring, announcement, the works. This weekend.”
Eliza felt a chill. “But we’re not—”
“It’s for the trust,” Julian said smoothly. “My grandfather’s executors are suspicious. They need to see a courtship. If we announce an engagement now, it validates the marriage later.”
Eliza looked at him. He was handsome, rich, and safe. He wasn’t Dallas. He wouldn’t break her heart because he didn’t own it.
“Fine,” she said. “If my plan fails, we get engaged.”
“Excellent.” Julian signaled the waiter. “Champagne.”
At The Vault, a private members’ club downtown, the music was thumping. Vinnie Sharpe was holding court, a bottle of vodka in one hand.
“Where is he?” Vinnie shouted over the bass. “He said an hour!”
Serena checked her watch. “He’s two hours late. This isn’t like him — Dallas is punctual to a fault.”
Dr. Vance sat in the corner, nursing a soda. He looked worried. “I haven’t seen him for a checkup in three months. He’s cancelled the last four appointments.”
“Maybe he’s depressed,” Azalea said, perched on the edge of the booth, looking small. “He just sits in the library in the dark. And it smells weird in there. Like chemicals.”
“Chemicals?” Vance frowned. “What kind?”
“Like a hospital,” Azalea shrugged.
Vance stood up. “That’s it. We’re going to him.”
“Ambush!” Vinnie cheered. “Let’s go!”
At the Koch Estate, Dallas was in the master bedroom. The dialysis machine hummed quietly in the corner, having just completed its cycle. Two empty tubes were coiled neatly on its surface.
He was pale, sweat soaking his sheets. His eyes were closed.
Suddenly, the intercom buzzed.
“Sir,” the gate guard’s voice crackled. “Mr. Sharpe and Dr. Vance are at the gate. They say it’s an emergency.”
Dallas’s eyes snapped open. Panic — pure and sharp — flooded his system.
“Don’t let them in!” Dallas rasped.
“They — they just drove through the gate, sir. They’re at the front door.”
“Damn it!” Dallas sat up. “Simmons! The dressing! Now!”
Simmons burst in, his face grim. “Sir, you need to rest post-treatment. Your blood pressure is dangerously low—”
“Do it!” Dallas yelled, scrambling out of bed as Simmons quickly and professionally applied a heavy pressure dressing over the catheter port in his chest. Dallas grabbed a towel and pressed it hard against the site, a wave of dizziness washing over him from the sudden fluid shift. “Hide the machine! Get the whiskey!”
Simmons moved fast. He wheeled the dialysis machine into the walk-in closet and stripped the sweat-soaked duvet cover, kicking it under the bed.
.
.
.