Chapter 270

“The scar,” Hilliard said, his voice barely audible. “The C-section scar. It was rough. An emergency.” His gaze hardened. “The files Kegan had — ‘Asset 1, 2, 3.’ Elia is one. Find the other two.” He gave the command into his phone without looking at it. “Use every resource. I want to know where my other children are.”

Before Vance could react to the bombshell, Hilliard’s focus snapped back to the immediate threat.

“Get our tech team on Charla’s cloud accounts. I want the original image she showed Elia — the metadata, the edit history. I want a digital noose.”

“We call the cops?” Vance asked, still reeling.

“No,” Hilliard said. “Cops means lawyers. Lawyers means plea deals. An insanity defense. A comfortable stay in a private facility until the heat dies down.”

“Then what?”

“I’m going to destroy her,” Hilliard said. “Strip her of her money, her name, her sanity. I’m going to leave her with nothing but the clothes on her back and the memory of what she did.”

“Hilliard, that’s war with the English family.”

“Good,” Hilliard said. “I’ve been looking for a reason to burn that bridge.”

He took the coffee from Vance and walked out of the room.

In the bed to the left, Cailin’s breathing hitched.

She hadn’t been asleep.

The sedative had worn off an hour ago. She had lain there, paralyzed by exhaustion, listening to every word.

She heard Elia’s voice. She heard the fear in it.

And she heard Hilliard.

I am the man who is going to make sure the Bad Lady never hurts you again.

A cold clarity washed over her, chilling her more deeply than any freezer could. His rage was a wildfire — impressive and destructive — but it was still his game, played by his rules. He would burn their world down with money and power, the very tools that had built this prison in the first place.

A single tear slid from the corner of Cailin’s eye and tracked silently into her hair.

She believed his anger. She believed his hatred of Charla.

But she didn’t believe he could save them. He was part of the world that had created Charla. He was the reason they were in this room at all.

Hilliard wanted to destroy Charla financially.

Cailin opened her eyes. They were dry and hard as flint.

Money wasn’t enough.

She needed blood.

The Director of Mount Sinai Hospital was sweating. He dabbed his forehead with a handkerchief, staring at the man who had settled himself into his own leather chair.

Hilliard Holloway looked as though he had walked out of a war zone. The blood dried into his shirt had gone stiff and brown. The bite mark on his neck was purple and livid.

“Mr. Holloway, I can’t just… falsify a medical report,” the Director stammered. “It’s unethical. It’s illegal.”

Hilliard didn’t blink. He slid a check across the mahogany desk.

“This is a donation for your new pediatric oncology wing. Five million dollars.”

The Director looked at the check. Then at Hilliard.

“And if I refuse?”

“Then I buy the board of directors and have you fired by lunch,” Hilliard said. “Release the statement.”

Ten minutes later, the notification detonated across every gossip blog and news outlet in New York.