Chapter 228

“They’re not just declaring war on you, Cailin,” Hilliard said, pulling out his phone. “They’re declaring war on me. And that is a war they are going to lose.”

The adrenaline spike from Vance’s news was too much for Cailin’s battered system. When she tried to stand, the room lurched violently. Her knees buckled, and Hilliard caught her before she reached the floor.

“She’s burning up,” he said, feeling the unnatural heat radiating through her clothes. “The infection from the water, the stress — she’s crashing.”

“Take her to my car,” Vance ordered. “I’ll make sure Ashley gets out of here safely before Preston’s people figure out where we are.”

The elevator ride to the penthouse was silent. Cailin was a dead weight in Hilliard’s arms.

He carried her into the master bedroom — the room she had fled five years ago. He noted with grim satisfaction that his team had already restored this one room to pristine condition, exactly as he had ordered. The rest of the penthouse was still a wreck, but this space he had kept like a shrine. He kicked the door shut behind him.

He laid her gently on the bed. The sheets were crisp and white, untouched. He hadn’t slept in this room since she left. It had become a mausoleum.

He sat on the edge of the mattress and unbuckled her shoes. Her feet were cold. He rubbed them slowly, trying to bring some warmth back.

He carefully removed the torn, grimy janitor’s jacket she was still wearing beneath her coat, meaning to throw it away. As he folded it back, his fingers caught on something hard and crinkled in the breast pocket. He reached inside and pulled out a small waterproof plastic bag. Within it, folded into a tiny square, was a faded and heavily creased piece of paper.

He unfolded it carefully.

It was a hospital admission slip, dated five years ago. Under Reason for Admission, two lines were printed in stark, clinical text:

Placental abruption. Risk of exsanguination. Proceed with emergency cesarean section.

She had kept it. Preserved it like a holy relic — or a piece of shrapnel from a battle she had survived alone.

The paper felt as though it burned his fingers. This was it. The cold, medical proof of the day he had let her calls go unanswered.

She stirred.

“Kegan?” she murmured, her eyes still closed.

Hilliard flinched. “No. It’s Hilliard.”

She frowned faintly in her sleep. “Bad Man.”

“Yeah,” Hilliard whispered, his throat tight. “Bad Man.”

He went to the bathroom and wetted a washcloth. He returned and gently wiped her face — the blood from her lip, the dirt from her cheek, careful around the bruise Victoria had left. He let his fingertips trace the line of her jaw.

“I’m so sorry,” he said to the sleeping woman. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t there.”

He thought of the triplets. Aron. Davy. Elia.

He walked to the window and looked out at the city. Somewhere out there, his sons were hiding — probably frightened, probably furious with him.

He pulled out his phone and called Gavin.