Chapter 554

Chapter 554:

And then a memory, sharp as broken glass, drove itself through him. Five years ago. A rainy night, much like this one. She had called him, her voice thin and weak with fever, asking when he’d be home. He had told her he was tied up with a deal. But he had been at a restaurant, celebrating Belle’s birthday. He had come home late to find Isolde asleep on the couch, shivering, a cold compress fallen to the floor beside her.

Regret moved through him like venom — swift and precise.

He clenched his fists until his knuckles cracked. Then he pulled out his phone.

“Arthur,” he said, his voice a low, controlled growl. “Follow her. Don’t let her see you. Make sure she gets home p>

Miles away, Isolde stood alone on a deserted street corner, hugging herself against the wind as she tried to hail a cab. The cold seeped into her bones and made her shiver uncontrollably.

𝖣𝗂𝗌𝖼𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝗇

A block behind her, a discreet black sedan pulled quietly away from the curb, its headlights dimmed, maintaining a careful distance through the dark — Grayson’s belated, invisible, and entirely useless protection.

The crisp night air hit Isolde like a slap, a stark contrast to the sterile warmth of the hospital. Julian had guided her out through a staff exit into a quiet side street. The main entrance, he had warned, was likely swarming with Lancaster’s people — or worse, the press.

She stood under the weak glow of a streetlight, pulling her coat tighter. She had dismissed the car her mother had called, insisting she could manage on her own. But five minutes had passed, and the app showed no cars nearby. The cold seeped into her bones, and a wave of dizziness moved through her in slow, rolling pulses.

Just as she leaned against the brick wall for support, a pair of headlights cut through the darkness and pulled up silently beside her. A sleek black Land Rover. The passenger window glided down.

It was Dr. Julian Thorne. He had changed out of his white coat and scrubs into a soft cashmere sweater, thin gold-rimmed glasses framing his intelligent eyes. He looked less like a doctor now and more like a gentle scholar.

“Ms. Carson,” he said, his voice calm and steady. “It’s late. Cabs are hard to find out here. Where are you headed? I can give you a lift p>

Isolde’s first instinct was to refuse — a reflexive, exhausted resistance to accepting help. “Thank you, but you’ve already done more than enough. I don’t want to trouble you p>

Julian’s gaze was discerning. He took in the slight tremor in her hands and the way she swayed almost imperceptibly on her feet.

“I’m a doctor,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument while avoiding all hint of command. “And I can’t, in good conscience, watch a patient nearly collapse in front of me. Please get in p>

The exhaustion was a weight pressing her down from the inside. She was too tired to argue. Too tired to be proud. She gave a small, defeated nod and walked around to the passenger side, her body moving on autopilot.