The automatic doors of St. Clara's burst open just as the rain slowed to a mist. Stephanie's head whipped toward the screech of tires. A black Bentley glided to a stop at the entrance. The driver barely had time to exit before Nathan Voss stepped out—immaculate as always, suit dry, expression wild with worry.
His eyes scanned the entrance like a predator locked on prey. When they landed on Stephanie, he didn't hesitate.
"Stephanie!" he barked, storming toward her.
She didn't move. Her jaw clenched, arms crossed, body stiff with fury she hadn't yet unleashed.
Nathan stopped in front of her, his breath shallow but controlled. "Are you hurt?"
"You're late," she snapped, voice ice.
Leo stepped in front of her slightly, protective instinct kicking in. "She's fine. Thanks for showing up now that the storm's passed."
Nathan's sharp gaze flicked toward Leo. "And you are?"
"Leo Quinn," he said, standing his ground. "Her brother."
Nathan's jaw flexed. "Good. Then you understand why I'm taking her home."
"Not happening," Stephanie interjected, steel in her tone.
Anita stepped forward, arms folded. "You've got some nerve showing up here like this, all concerned and boss-like, when you've been playing games with her head."
Nathan's attention snapped to her. "You must be Anita."
"And you must be the emotionally constipated billionaire who keeps secrets like they're stock options," she fired back.
Nathan's brow arched, but his tone stayed level. "You're worried about her? Good. Then maybe you can convince her to stop being stubborn and get in the damn car before someone else tries to kill her."
Stephanie rolled her eyes. "Oh, now you care."
"I always cared," Nathan said, eyes narrowing. "Even when I didn't show it. Even when I knew you hated me and I still couldn't stay away."
Stephanie's lips curled. "You could've told me the truth, Nathan. From the first moment. That you recognized me. That you knew my father saved your life."
Nathan's jaw twitched. "And you could've told me you saw it happen. That you've been holding back too."
"Oh, don't flip this on me—"
"I'm not flipping anything!" he snapped, stepping closer. "I'm saying we've both been dancing around this—and now someone nearly died because of it."
The air pulsed between them. Leo stepped back slowly, watching the tension tighten like piano wire.
Nathan turned to him, his voice low but commanding. "I don't care if you're her brother or the damn pope. If you hurt her, I will bury you under a lawsuit so thick your grandchildren will still be appealing."
Leo blinked, then gave a faint, impressed smirk. "Noted."
Anita nudged Leo. "Let's go. I think the power struggle here is reaching final boss level."
Leo glanced at his sister. "You okay with this?"
"I'm not going with him," Steph muttered.
"You are," Nathan countered firmly.
"You don't get to—"
"I do, because the people after you? They're not done. And you walking around alone is an open invitation for a bullet."
"I can protect myself!"
Nathan leaned in. "You shouldn't have to. Not anymore."
Something shifted in her expression, but she masked it quickly. "I'll go. But not because you told me to."
He gave a faint, humorless smile. "Fine by me. As long as you're in that car."
Leo and Anita stepped aside as Stephanie brushed past them, chin high. Nathan turned to follow, but Leo's voice stopped him.
"Don't break her."
Nathan paused. "I already did."
Anita's voice came next, quieter, but laced with meaning. "Don't let it be permanent."
Nathan said nothing more. He walked back to the Bentley. Stephanie slid into the backseat first, arms folded tightly. He joined her, and the car pulled into the night.
—
At St. Clara's, hours after visiting hours ended, the halls had quieted. Nurses moved like ghosts, the overhead lights humming softly.
Elizabeth Quinn slept peacefully—monitors beeping steadily beside her. She had no idea that down the hall, dressed as orderlies, two men loitered by the nurse's station.
Marek adjusted the mask over his face. "Room 416. End of the hall."
Josiah checked the corridor. "Security's light. No cameras in the west wing tonight."
"Perfect," Marek murmured, his eyes fixed like a predator.
They moved quietly, pushing a linen cart. The syringe Josiah held gleamed under the dim lights.
But as they reached the door—
"Excuse me?" a nurse said, her voice chirping behind them.
Both men froze. Marek turned, forcing a smile. "Just delivering fresh sheets."
The nurse frowned. "Those went out two hours ago."
Josiah grinned, stepping closer. "Management says double prep tonight."
"Uh-huh," the nurse said slowly, her eyes narrowing.
But then a code blared over the intercom. Code Blue. Room 203.
The nurse gasped and rushed off. Marek smirked. "Lucky."
They opened the door to Room 416.
Elizabeth lay still.
Josiah moved toward the IV, prepping the syringe.
But before he could plunge it in, the lamp shattered.
The men spun around—only to be slammed to the floor by a blur of black.
Nathan's bodyguard, James, stood over them with a steel baton. He cracked it once more across Josiah's skull as Marek reached for a blade, then he kicked him so hard into the wall that plaster cracked.
Seconds later, a second team rushed in—Nathan's private security.
James pulled out a radio. "Targets secured."
—
In the Voss estate, Damien paced furiously. His phone buzzed with a single word from Josiah's burner:
Failed.
He stared at it for a long second. "We're losing."
Victor entered the room, wine in hand, calm as ever. "That depends on how many moves you have left."
Damien looked up sharply. "How many do you have left?"
Victor's eyes gleamed. "Just enough."
He sipped his wine. "But make no mistake. Elizabeth Quinn won't survive the next one."
Damien hesitated. "And Stephanie?"
Victor's smile thinned. "Collateral. She made her choice."
And in the corner of the room, the fire crackled like a warning—the storm far from over.