The medical wing of the Thorne estate smelled of sterile ozone and Julian's frantic, jagged breathing.
When Dr. Aris finally burst through the double doors, forty minutes after the alarm had been raised, the air in the room was thick enough to choke on. Julian didn't look up from Elara's pale face. He was holding her hand with a grip so tight his knuckles were white, as if he could physically tether her soul to the room.
"I—I apologize, Mr. Thorne," the doctor panted, setting his kit down. "The storm slowed the transport—"
"Quiet," Julian said. It wasn't a shout; it was a low, vibrating warning. "Fix her."
For the next hour, Julian stood like a statue of salt. He watched every movement, every flickering light on the monitors, his silence more terrifying than a tantrum. When the doctor finally stepped back, wiping sweat from his brow, he cleared his throat.
"The internal bleeding is stabilized, but the head trauma... she'll be unconscious for several days, perhaps three. She needs absolute quiet." Aris began to pack his bag, his hands trembling. "I'll return in the morning to check—"
"Don't bother," Julian interrupted, finally looking at him. His eyes were bloodshot, devoid of any warmth. "That reminds me. You're fired. I don't employ family doctors who treat my time—or my assets—as suggestions. Marcus will see you out. If I see you on this property again, I'll consider it trespassing."
The doctor turned pale, but one look at Julian's face stopped any protest. He fled.
"Marcus," Julian called out. The head of security stepped into the light. "Get a new doctor. The best in the country. I want them here within two hours, or you can join Aris at the unemployment line."
For the next three days, the world outside the medical wing ceased to exist for Julian Thorne. He didn't eat. He didn't sleep. He sat in the high-backed velvet chair beside her bed, watching the slow, rhythmic rise and fall of her chest.
On the second night, Martha crept in with a tray of tea and broth. The clink of the porcelain felt like a gunshot in the silence.
"Sir," she whispered, "you must sustain yourself. Miss Elara wouldn't want—"
Julian's head snapped toward her. The look in his eyes was feral. "It seems like you don't like the job you have, Martha," he said, his voice a lethal rasp. "Did I ask you to come into this room? Did I ask you to bother me?"
"No, sir, I just—"
"Get out of my sight before I change my mind and do something you would regret," he hissed. Martha didn't wait for a second warning; she vanished, the tray rattling in her hands.
By the third day, the "Fixer" in Julian had been replaced by something darker. He was starving, dehydrated, and exhausted, yet he didn't move until Elara's eyelids finally fluttered.
When her vision finally cleared, Julian was no longer by her side. He was standing by the window, his back to her, silhouetted against a grey, weeping sky. He had wiped the exhaustion from his face, replacing it with a mask of bored annoyance.
"You're awake," he said, not turning around. His voice was sandpaper.
"Julian..." she croaked, her hand going to the bandage on her head.
"Don't," he snapped. He finally turned. "Your inquisitiveness nearly cost me a very expensive asset. If you hadn't reached for things that didn't belong to you, you wouldn't be tied to a heart monitor right now."
He walked to the bed, looming over her. "I have business in Berlin. Silas's visit stirred up the Council, and I need to settle the blood in the water." He leaned down, his thumb grazing the edge of her bandage with a touch that was almost a caress, yet felt like a threat. "Stay in this bed, Elara. Behave like a Thorne, and perhaps I won't find it necessary to lock the door when I return."
He left without a goodbye. In the hallway, he signaled Marcus. "I want hourly reports. If she breathes differently, I want to know. If she moves, I want to see it." I will be gone for two days and everything should be in order.
High Above the Atlantic
The private jet was silent, save for the hum of the engines. Julian ignored the dossiers on his desk. Instead, he watched the high-definition feed of her bedroom on his encrypted tablet.
He saw her sitting by the window, quiet and pale, looking more like a broken doll than the woman who had defied him. For the first time, a flicker of something like pity—or perhaps a darker, more possessive guilt—twisted in his chest.
His phone buzzed. It was Marcus. "She hasn't touched her lunch, sir. She's just staring at the gardens."
Julian stared at the screen, watching her small frame. He felt a sudden, irrational urge to see her move, to see the spark return to her eyes, even if it was spark of hatred for him.
He tapped a command into his phone. "Open the East Wing corridors. Let her walk."
The click of the electronic lock was the loudest sound Elara had heard in days…. When Martha informed her that the Master had granted her "limited mobility," Elara didn't hesitate. Her head throbbed, but her Architect mind was already mapping the house.
She wandered through the labyrinth of black stone and glass, her fingers trailing along the cold walls. She passed the dining hall where Silas had insulted her, the library, and the conservatory. But it was at the end of a sub-level hallway, behind a door with no handle and a biometric scanner, that the air grew heavy.
It was a "blind spot" on the map—a room not listed in the house's central heating vent system. Elara, using her Fixer instincts, pressed her ear to the cool steel.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
The door didn't open. Instead, a red light bathed the hallway.
"Intrusion detected. Sector 4," a mechanical voice echoed.
Within seconds, the silent hallway was flooded with guards. They didn't touch her, but their presence was a wall of muscle and suppressed submachine guns.
"Orders just came in from Mr Throne, Mrs. Thorne," the lead guard said, his face a mask of iron. "You are to be returned to your quarters immediately. The Master is... displeased, and on his way back"