The stone corridor outside Rhett's private chambers was quiet, but it didn't feel still. It pulsed with tension, vibrating just under the surface like the estate itself had begun to anticipate war.
Beckett stood at the threshold, arms crossed, eyes sharp.
"You didn't call me," he said.
Rhett, seated behind his desk, didn't look up. He scrawled something across a parchment, sealed it with wax, and handed it to a courier standing nearby.
"Deliver that to West Hollow within the hour," Rhett said. "Go through the old pass. And don't stop. Not for anything."
The courier nodded and vanished.
Only then did Rhett meet Beckett's eyes.
"I was handling it."
"She collapsed."
"I saw."
"On the floor. Alone. Face down. Her heart nearly stopped."
"I was there."
"You were late," Beckett snapped.
Rhett stood.
The desk no longer separated them.
"I'm not having this conversation with you."
"You don't have a choice."
