The sun was out.
Unsettling.
It was one of those rare, bright mornings that made the city look almost... bearable. I sat on the terrace of Cameron’s penthouse, blazer off, sleeves rolled, an untouched glass of whiskey sweating on the table beside me.
Cameron had insisted on a "proper day off." Said if the girls were getting a spa day, we deserved a break too.
I wasn’t sold on the logic, but here I am.
"You know she called me a tragedy," Cameron was saying, pacing in front of me like a man halfway through a Shakespearean monologue. "A tragedy, Adrien. That’s not even casual insult—that’s Greek-level."
I didn’t look up from my phone. "Aria?"
"Yes, Aria. Your girlfriend’s feisty little best friend with the murder glare."
I gave him a look. "And you’re surprised?"
"I was charming. Effortlessly likable. Even wore real pants. And she—" He stopped, arms flailing. "She looked at me like I had murdered her cat."
I didn’t respond.
Because Aria being that way she is? Wasn’t news. Because Cameron getting dramatic? Also not news. But mostly because something wasn’t sitting right with me.
I checked my phone again.
No messages.
Isabella hadn’t texted since she got picked up. I told myself she was just relaxing. Elise was with her. Clara too, apparently.
Still.
My thumb hovered over her contact.
"Are you even listening to me?" Cameron threw a grape at me. It bounced off my shoulder.
"I heard you," I said flatly. "You were being sensitive. Aria was being Aria. You’ll survive."
"She wore Doc Martens to a date, Adrien."
"Are you bleeding?"
"No."
"Then you’re fine."
Cameron groaned and flopped onto the lounge chair across from me. "God, you’re cold. I forgot how cold you are when your girlfriend isn’t around."
He was right, of course. Isabella was my warmth, the steady sun to my planetary cold. Without her, my orbit decayed. I was just a rock hurtling through empty space.
I was about to tell him as much, maybe with less poetry and more bite, when my phone vibrated against the glass table between us.
I glanced at the screen, expecting an update from Gray or one of the new security heads.
Mom.
I frowned and answered. "mother?"
Her voice hit me before her words did—frantic, thin, trembling at the edges.
"Adrien." Her voice sounded... wrong. Tight. Trembling at the edges. "You need to come. Right now."
I straightened. "What happened?"
"It’s Isabella."
My world tilted.
"She—there was an accident in the hydrotherapy pool," Elise said, the words coming fast now, unraveling like a thread pulled too tight. "She hit her head. She was unconscious under the water. Clara got her out. She’s breathing, but she hasn’t woken up. Adrien—she’s not waking up."
"Where is she now? What hospital?"
"That’s the problem," Mother said, breathless. "We called three ambulances. Two said they were rerouting because of technical issues. The third broke down five minutes away. They’re sending another but it’s been nearly twenty minutes and she’s not responsive—Adrien, she’s bleeding."
The frantic sound of my mother’s voice, the city hum, Cameron’s breathing—it all faded into a dull, distant roar. In its place, a single, silent, crystalline point of focus.
"Listen to me," I said. The voice that answered her wasn’t her son’s. It was a general’s on a battlefield. "Keep pressure on the wound. Use a clean towel. Keep her on her side, so she doesn’t choke. Talk to her, even if she can’t hear you. Keep talking. What is the exact address?"
Cameron was on his feet, his face pale, the half-eaten grape forgotten in his hand. He’d seen this look on me before, but only twice. It was a look that preceded terrible things.
My mother gave me the address of the spa—The Gilded Lotus. I didn’t write it down. I wouldn’t forget it.
"I’m on my way."
"Adrien—"
I ended the call and tossed the phone onto the lounge chair. The whiskey glass rattled.
Cameron was already holding my blazer out. "Get the car," I said, shrugging it on. My movements were fluid, devoid of hesitation.
The sun-drenched city that had seemed almost bearable thirty seconds ago was now a mockery. A bright, cheerful stage for a horror show.
The rerouted ambulances weren’t a coincidence. The technical issues weren’t random.
Someone had tried to kill her.
The elevator doors slid open to the cool concrete of the garage. Cameron’s Aston Martin gleamed under the lights.
He tossed me the keys. "You drive."
******
The city was a blur of muted colors, a canvas streaked by the rush of speed. Cameron’s Aston Martin, a beast of precision and power, devoured the asphalt.
I slammed on the accelerator, the engine’s roar a primal scream cutting through the oppressive quiet of my own mind. Every red light was a suggestion, every speed limit a joke. The wheel was cold beneath my hands, a stark contrast to the burning rage that simmered just beneath my skin.
Cameron gripped the dash, his knuckles white. "Adrien, slow down! You’ll kill us both!"
I didn’t spare him a glance. My focus was absolute, singular. Isabella. Unconscious. Bleeding. The words echoed, a broken record in my skull, each repetition twisting the knife deeper.
"They rerouted the ambulances," I said, my voice low, flat. "Two of them. The third broke down. Five minutes away." My foot pressed harder on the pedal. "Do you believe in coincidences, Cameron?"
"No," Cameron said, his voice grim.
A smile tugged on my lips.
*****
The car skidded to a stop in front of the spa entrance. We were out of the car before the engine fully died, the heavy doors slamming shut with a sound like a gunshot.
The lobby was too quiet—staff standing awkwardly, frozen in some sort of collective panic.
I walked past them all.
My mother saw me first. Her perfectly composed face was a wreck, her eyes wide and pleading. "Adrien!" my mother gasped, rushing forward.
I caught her by the shoulders, my grip firm, steadying her. My eyes scanned past them, searching. "Where is she?" My voice was gravel.
Mother hurried ahead, the sound of our steps echoing in the pristine silence as we walked through the hall. I could already feel my blood rushing faster, my mind calculating every possible worst-case scenario.
We rounded a corner into the private suite.
And there she was.
She was laid out on a row of white chaise lounges, bundled in towels. But the white was violated by a crimson stain spreading from a makeshift bandage on her head. Her face, the face I memorized every morning and dreamed of every night, was ashen white, except for a raw scrape along her cheekbone. Her dark hair was wet, plastered to her forehead. She was so, so still.
The cold in my chest solidified, turning from a creeping chill to a glacier. It wasn’t anger anymore. Anger was hot, messy. This was something else entirely. Something sharp and clean and absolute.
I knelt beside her, my fingers going instinctively to the pulse point on her neck. It was there. Faint, thready, but there. I gently brushed a stray, damp strand of hair from her cheek. She didn’t stir.
I placed my fingers lightly on her wrist, feeling for a pulse, watching her throat as it gently moved with each inhale.
"Is she stable?" I asked, eyes lifting toward the staff gathered near the door.
One of the attendants, who had been hovering, gave a small nod. "Yes. Her vitals are stable for now. But we haven’t been able to get any more information. She hasn’t regained consciousness."
"We’re leaving," I announced, the decision made.
I stood, turning to Cameron. "Bring the car to the service entrance at the back. I want the engine running and the door open."
I turned to Clara, voice like steel.
"Take my mother home."
She hesitated. "Adrien, I can come with you—"
"I said take her home."
Clara gave a small nod, biting her lip, and walked toward mother, offering her a hand. They left in silence.
The moment they were gone, I turned back to Isabella. "Hang on," I whispered to her.
With a flick of my wrist, I pulled out my phone and started dialing. A doctor. A hospital. Someone who could get her the care she needed—right now.
I gathered Isabella in my arms—still damp from the water, her skin clammy against mine—and walked out without a single backward glance.