Chapter 332
“Sign it,” Anson said, handing her a pen. “Sign it and be free of him. I’ll fund the gallery myself. I promise.”
Eliza took the pen. Her hand shook so hard she could barely hold it.
She pressed the tip to the paper.
Eliza…
She wrote her name. It came out crooked, ugly. Solomon.
She dropped the pen.
The room spun. The hunger, the grief, the shock — it all crashed down at once.
“Eliza!” Anson shouted.
She didn’t feel the floor when she hit it.
Harrison grabbed the papers and ran. He texted Dallas from the car.
Signed. She fainted. Anson is with her.
In the hospital bed, Dallas read the text. A single tear escaped his eye, tracking slowly through the grime on his face.
“It’s done,” he whispered to the empty room. “She’s safe.”
He turned his face to the pillow and wept — silent and broken.
The smell of antiseptic woke her.
Eliza blinked. She was back in a hospital — not the ICU, but a private room.
Anson was sitting by the bed, holding her hand.
“You’re awake,” he said softly. “Acute gastritis and dehydration. You scared me.”
Eliza pulled her hand away. She felt light. Empty.
“I signed,” she said. Her voice sounded like it belonged to a stranger.
“You did,” Anson said. “It’s over. He can’t hurt you anymore.”
“I want fresh air,” Eliza said. She sat up. The IV line tugged at her arm.
“Eliza, you need to rest —”
“I need air!” she snapped.
She ripped the tape from her hand and pulled the IV out. Blood welled up, but she ignored it. She grabbed her coat and walked out of the room.
She took the elevator to the roof.
The night air was cold, the city spread out below her in a grid of indifferent lights. She walked to the edge of the parapet. She wasn’t going to jump. She just wanted to see the edge — to feel how close death was. To understand why Dallas had chosen it over her.
Across the hospital campus, in a sealed ICU room, Dallas watched a monitor — not his vitals, but a live feed from the hospital’s rooftop security camera. He had Weston hack the system the moment he learned Eliza had been admitted to the same facility. He saw her emerge, a small, solitary figure against the glittering skyline. He watched her walk to the edge.
Panic exploded in his chest. She’s going to jump.
His heart monitor began to scream, a frantic, high-pitched wail. He slammed a weak fist against the bed rail, the impact a dull thud that barely registered. He tried to call her name, but his throat was raw from intubation and only a strangled croak escaped. He fumbled for the call button, his fingers weak and clumsy, and knocked it to the floor. He was trapped — a prisoner in his own broken body, forced to watch the woman he loved stand on the precipice.
“Eliza,” he rasped, his eyes fixed on the grainy image on the screen.