She exhales softly. “People respond to him differently now. Doors open more easily. Calls get returned faster. He made a comment the other night that bothered me.”
I hold her gaze. “What comment?”
Her fingers still. “He said people take him more seriously now.”
I offer no reaction, allowing the silence to sit as I assess what she hasn’t said.
“Has he mentioned my name?”
She hesitates, just long enough to answer without words, then nods. That’s enough.
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” I tell her, my tone unchanging. “I’ll take care of it.”
She studies my face, searching for anger, urgency, or threat. She finds none of those things. Only certainty.
She exhales, relief flooding through her. “I thought you would say that.”
“I always will,” I reply.
We finish dinner without revisiting the subject. She talks more freely again, the tension draining from her posture. When I walk her to her car, I wait until she’s inside before stepping back, watching until the engine starts and the headlights turn down the drive. Only then do I move.
Evan receives warnings before midnight. Not threats, warnings. Business contacts distance themselves without explanation.Access he believed was earned evaporates. Invitations stop arriving. Calls go unanswered. The illusion of protection dissolves piece by piece.
By the time the visit occurs later that night, delivered by Karp alone, the outcome is inevitable. He doesn’t threaten. He doesn’t explain. He fills the doorway, broad shoulders blocking the light, his presence stripping away any illusion Evan still clings to. Karp’s silence does the work words never could. The message requires no embellishment.
He is not protected. He is not connected. He will never mention the Sovarin name again.
The relationship ends on his initiative. Elyana calls to confirm. Her voice is lighter. Gratitude threads through it, unspoken but present.
I end the call and stand alone in my office once more, the estate quiet around me.
Power doesn’t need to be loud, it only needs to be clear. And Rowan remains untouched by all of it, unaware that the same instinct that moved me to protect my sister now watches over her with equal resolve.
11
ROWAN
The trauma bay smells like antiseptic and iron, each breath pulling the scent deeper into my lungs until I can taste it on the back of my tongue. Everything is in motion. Monitors chime in overlapping rhythms. Carts skim across the linoleum, wheels squeaking as people move faster than the floor was ever meant to allow. Voices overlap with intensity, each person speaking their own language of vitals, protocols, and moments that decide outcomes.
I move through it without thinking, my body already ahead of my mind, my hands reaching for instruments before I consciously realize the need.
“Two units ready,” someone calls from across the bay.
“Pressure's dropping,” another voice answers.
I don't look up when I speak, my attention locked on thepatient in front of me. “Raise the head. I want suction on standby. And someone tell radiology we're not waiting.”
I apply pressure, my palms warm through the latex, and my fingers finding their placement without thought. The patient groans beneath me, his chest shuddering as he fights the pain, his muscles contracting against the trauma. I lean closer, angling my body to shield him from the chaos swirling around us, lowering my voice until it's just for him.
“Stay with me. You're doing exactly what you need to do.”
I feel it then. Not fear or distraction. Not even the usual hypervigilance that comes with working trauma. This is different. Subtler. The sense of being observed.
Not the obvious kind of watching. No prickle that makes you turn and catch someone staring. This is pattern recognition, the same instinct that reacts before a monitor does. The same awareness that makes my spine straighten, and my shoulders pull back a fraction, before I can explain why.
I ignore it.
This isn’t the place for ghosts, paranoia, or distraction. People need me focused. Lives depend on the clarity of my decisions and the speed of my reactions.
