Chapter 290
Dawn slipped quietly through the thin fabric of the luxury tent, painting the tangled sheets in warm gold. Henry Jackson and Isabella Voss lay wrapped around each other, limbs lazy, bodies still humming from the night before. The air carried the faint sweetness of lavender massage oil mixed with something far less innocent—the unmistakable evidence of a night that had absolutely not been wasted.
Outside, birds chirped with cheerful indifference, as if nothing in the world could possibly be wrong.
They were lying.
Henry was the first to stir. His eyes cracked open just as a sharp chorus of muffled shouts and hurried footsteps cut through the morning calm. This wasn’t the soothing rustle of wind through trees or the distant clink of breakfast preparations—it was full-blown chaos. The kind that made your stomach tighten before your brain could catch up.
With a quiet groan, Henry propped himself up on one elbow and looked down at Isabella. She was still fast asleep, blissfully unaware of the brewing disaster outside. Her red hair fanned across the pillow like spilled fire, her breathing slow and steady. For a moment, the world shrank to just the two of them—and last night’s memories came flooding back in vivid, distracting detail. The way she’d moved, the way she’d whispered his name like it was a secret meant only for him.
He smiled despite himself.
Leaning down, he brushed a gentle kiss against her forehead, lingering just long enough to feel the warmth of her skin. “Sleep well, Izzy,” he murmured, careful not to wake her. Then, reluctantly, he disentangled himself from the sheets, tugged on his wrinkled pants, and attacked his shirt with about half the precision it deserved. Whatever was happening outside clearly demanded attention.
And hopefully wouldn’t take long.
The moment Henry stepped out into the crisp morning air, reality slapped him awake. The campsite—normally a polished oasis of designer tents and overpriced serenity for the tech conference elite—looked like someone had kicked a very expensive anthill. Groups of people clustered together, whispering urgently. Some clutched coffee mugs like emotional support objects, others paced as if walking might somehow solve the problem.
Nearby, Marcus Hale—round, red-faced, and perpetually dramatic—was barking orders into his phone like a general preparing for war.
Henry rubbed his eyes and walked over. “Marcus,” he said, voice still rough with sleep, “what’s going on? It sounds like the apocalypse scheduled an early meeting p>
Marcus lowered his phone, his bushy eyebrows pulling together as if they’d rehearsed the expression. “Henry… you didn’t hear?” He leaned in, dropping his voice. “It’s Eliana. Eliana Vexley. Rafael’s wife p>
Henry stiffened.
“Last night,” Marcus continued, “she and Jason Asher went off-road on one of those deserted trail paths. Somehow, they ended up in a deep ditch. They were found this morning—unconscious, badly shaken. She’s already been rushed to the medical tent p>
He nodded toward the far end of the campsite. “Rafael’s over there, losing his mind. Locked the place down like it’s Fort Knox p>
The name hit Henry like a runaway freight train.
Eliana.
His Eliana—the girl he’d loved with a recklessness that bordered on self-destruction. The one whose laugh still ambushed him in quiet moments, whose smile had followed him into other beds, other lives, long after she’d disappeared from his world. Everything around him seemed to tilt, the colors draining as if someone had yanked the saturation out of reality itself.
“What?” he breathed. “Eliana… in a ditch? Unconscious p>
The words came out fractured, barely strong enough to survive the air between them. Marcus nodded, his expression grave, but Henry hardly registered it. His mind was already unraveling, panic clawing its way to the surface.
He didn’t remember turning away.
Didn’t remember the tent behind him.
Didn’t remember the woman still warm in his sheets.
All that mattered was Eliana.
Henry broke into a run, shoes thudding against dew-soaked grass as the morning air burned his lungs. His shirt flapped open and untucked like it had given up on dignity altogether, his hair a mess that screamed I absolutely did not plan for today to go like this. He sprinted harder, heart slamming against his ribs as if it were trying to escape first.
The medical tent loomed at the edge of the campsite—an immaculate fortress of white canvas, humming with machinery and tension. Security personnel stood guard, stone-faced and immovable, while a crowd hovered nearby: worried executives, conference staff, and the inevitable spectators pretending not to stare while staring very hard.
Henry pushed through them like a man possessed.
“Let me in!” he said, voice rough, chest heaving. “I need to see Eliana—please. She’s… she’s a friend. I just need to know if she’s okay p>
The words tumbled out desperate and unpolished, but he didn’t care. For Eliana, pride could take a seat. Right now, all he needed was to see her breathing.
One of the guards, a burly man with a clipboard, blocked his path. “Sir, no one’s allowed inside except medical personnel. Mr. Vexley’s orders. He’s… protective, to say the least p>
“Protective? That’s my—that’s Eliana in there!” Henry’s voice rose, laced with desperation. He paced back and forth like a caged animal, his hands raking through his hair. Tears welled up unbidden, spilling down his cheeks as images flashed through his mind: Eliana’s warm brown eyes laughing at one of his lame jokes back home, her slender frame huddled against the wind on their night walks. How had this happened? Why wasn’t he there? “This is my fault,” he muttered to himself, sinking against a nearby tree trunk. “I should’ve been there for her. I knew Jason was bad news, but I let him wander about this place without watching his every move. God, if I’d just told her how I felt back in college… if I’d fought for her Sobs wracked his body, his shoulders shaking as guilt consumed him. It wasn’t rational—he hadn’t even known she was out at night, let alone in danger—but the heart didn’t care for logic. He blamed himself for every missed opportunity, every unspoken word.
Inside the tent, though Henry couldn’t see it, Rafael Vexley loomed like a shadow over the doctors. His steel-grey eyes, no longer feigning cloudiness, scanned every movement with paranoid intensity. “No one comes near her,” he growled at the lead physician, a middle-aged man adjusting Eliana’s IV drip. “Not until I say so. You understand? My wife’s been through enough—betrayals, accidents orchestrated by only God knows who.” The doctor nodded meekly, focusing on Eliana’s unconscious form, her honey-brown eyes closed, bruises blooming across her warm brown skin. Rafael’s hand trembled as he brushed a curl from her forehead, his cold facade cracking just a fraction. “Hang in there, Eliana. I’m here. No one’s taking you from me p>
To be continued p>