Chapter 8
Chapter 8:
The next morning, Azalea was meeting friends for brunch at a trendy spot in SoHo.
She arrived early and ordered a mimosa. She was scrolling through her phone when a shadow fell across her table.
She looked up. Anson Hyde was standing there. He looked worse than the day before — eyes bloodshot, jaw tight.
“What do you want, Anson?” Azalea asked, her voice thick with disgust.
𝘙о𝗆aո𝘤𝘦 𝗮n𝖽 𝗉a𝘴𝗌𝗂𝘰n 𝘰ո.с𝘰𝗺
Anson didn’t sit. He slid a velvet box across the table.
“Tell me who she married,” he said. “I know she’s staying with you. I know you’re hiding her p>
Azalea looked at the box, then flipped it open. Inside wasn’t jewelry. It was an old, tarnished silver locket — Eliza’s mother’s locket. The one Anson had claimed was lost when the estate was settled. The one Eliza had cried over for weeks.
Azalea snapped the box shut, her face hardening.
“You think you can bribe me with her own stolen property?” she asked, her voice dropping to something dangerous. “Do you have any idea how pathetic you are p>
Anson gritted his teeth. “She is making a mistake. She is mentally unstable. She needs her family p>
“You aren’t family,” Azalea said. “You’re a jailer p>
She stood, picked up her mimosa, and without breaking eye contact, poured the sticky orange liquid over Anson’s expensive Italian loafers.
“She is happy,” Azalea said. “And she is way out of your league now. Bye, loser p>
She grabbed her bag and walked out, already typing as she went.
Anson tried to bribe me with Mom’s locket. Lol. Ruin him.
In the Koch Industries tower, Dallas read the text.
His face didn’t move. He pressed a button on his desk phone.
“Vance. Initiate a short position on Hyde Consolidated. Release the opposition research on their Q3 earnings to our contacts at the Journal. I want their credit lines frozen by morning p>
Vance’s voice came through the speaker, measured and careful. “Dallas, that’s a declaration of war. The market will react p>
“Do it,” Dallas said. “Burn it down p>
Back at the penthouse, Eliza was in the library trying to study for her Art History midterm. Her iPad lit up with a news alert.
BREAKING: Hyde Consolidated Stocks Tumble Amidst Damning Report on Financial Irregularities.
She stared at the screen. The graph was a steep red line, plunging without pause. The realization settled over her slowly — Dallas had done this. This was what “handling it” looked like.
The front door opened. Dallas was home early again, just past one in the afternoon. He found her in the library.
“You didn’t have to do that,” she said, turning the screen toward him.
Dallas leaned against the doorframe. He looked relaxed — tie gone, top button undone.
“He annoyed my daughter,” Dallas said. “And my wife p>
“I’m not worth a stock war,” Eliza muttered, looking back down at her notes. “You’re losing money too, probably p>
Dallas crossed the room and stopped directly in front of her chair. He reached out, placed one finger beneath her chin, and tilted her face up toward his.
“You undervalue yourself, Eliza,” he said softly. “Stop doing that p>
His thumb brushed her lower lip. The contact was electric. Eliza stopped breathing. His eyes were fixed on her mouth, and the air between them grew thin, weighted with everything neither of them had said.
For a moment, she was certain he was going to kiss her.
Then Dallas pulled back. Abruptly.
“Pack a bag,” he said, his voice rough at the edges.
“Where are we going?” she asked, still breathless.
“Away,” he said, turning toward the door. “The city is too loud. And I want to show you something p>
Eliza nodded, finding — with some surprise — that she trusted him entirely now.
Dallas walked out into the hallway and leaned against the wall, eyes closed. His heart was hammering like a teenager’s.
He had almost kissed her. He had almost ruined the pacing.
He needed to get her to Maple Lake. He needed to show her the truth, piece by piece.