His eyes returned to me.
“I spent five years letting Victor decide what I needed to worry about,” I said. “What I should know. Who I should see. How I should dress. What I should sign. I am done being protected by silence.”
Something flickered in Adrian’s face.
Respect, maybe.
Or regret.
He nodded once. “Fair enough.”
He reached into the inside pocket of his coat and removed a slim phone. “Victor’s claim has been flagged. Not denied. Not approved. Flagged. Officially, the company requires additional verification because of the size of the policy and the circumstances of the reported accident.”
“Does he know that?”
“He knows there is a review.”
“He’ll get nervous.”
“He already is.”
“How do you know?”
Adrian hesitated.
That hesitation told me more than his words.
“Because you’re watching him,” I said.
“We are preserving information,” he corrected.
Despite everything, a weak laugh escaped me. It turned into pain so sharp my eyes watered.
Adrian stood quickly. “Don’t move.”
“I’m not laughing because it’s funny,” I breathed. “I’m laughing because Victor always said insurance companies were heartless. Turns out he was only afraid they were thorough.”
For the first time, Adrian almost smiled.
Almost.
Then the door opened again, and a doctor stepped in. She was in her early forties, with dark hair pulled back and a calm gaze that made the room feel less fragile.
“I’m Dr. Maren Walsh,” she said. “I’m overseeing your care tonight. Mrs. Hale, you’ve been through serious trauma. We’ve managed to avoid emergency delivery for now, but we need to be honest. You and the baby remain at risk. Our priority is keeping you stable as long as we safely can.”
“How long?” I asked.
“Every hour helps. Every day would be better.”
I closed my eyes.
Every day meant Victor remained free.
Every day meant pretending to be dead.
Every day meant lying still while my whole life burned down without me.
Dr. Walsh seemed to understand the battle on my face. “Survival first,” she said gently. “Everything else after.”
After she left, Adrian remained standing at the foot of my bed.
“There’s something else,” he said.
I opened my eyes.
“Your chart is under a protected alias. Only essential medical staff know your real identity. Hospital security has been briefed that no visitors are permitted unless cleared by me and Dr. Walsh.”
“My husband has rights,” I said bitterly.
“Not if the hospital believes disclosure places you in immediate danger.”
A strange silence settled between us.
Immediate danger.
The phrase sounded clinical, almost ordinary. It did not contain the cliff. It did not contain the cold. It did not contain Victor’s hands striking my shoulders or Serena’s trembling voice asking whether I was dead.
I swallowed hard. “What name am I under?”
Adrian’s expression shifted.
“Emma Frost.”
Even through the pain, I stared at him. “That sounds fake.”
“It is fake.”
“Couldn’t you have chosen something less obvious?”
“It was chosen quickly.”
I might have laughed again if my ribs allowed it. Instead, I pressed my lips together and looked toward the window.
Snow tapped softly against the glass.
“Why were you there?” I asked.
Adrian did not answer.
I turned my head back. “At the mountain. In the storm. Why were you there?”
He looked older in that moment.
“I was already in Aspen,” he said. “Our investigators had been reviewing Victor’s financial activity. There were inconsistencies tied to the policy. I came personally because…” He stopped.
“Because what?”
His jaw tightened. “Because your name appeared on the file.”
The monitors hummed steadily beside me.
“Elena Hale,” he continued. “Born Elena Marlow. Daughter of Sofia Marlow.”
My mother’s name struck me harder than I expected.
Sofia Marlow.
I had not heard it spoken by anyone who knew her in years.
“You knew my mother,” I said.
“Yes.”
“How?”
Adrian lowered himself back into the chair. “That is a longer conversation than you should have tonight.”
“I almost died tonight.”
His eyes closed briefly.
When he opened them, the careful corporate mask had slipped. Beneath it was a man carrying a wound so old it had become part of his posture.
“I loved her,” he said.
The room seemed to still.
“She worked as a translator for one of our European offices before Cross Atlantic became what it is now. She was brilliant. Stubborn. Funny in a way that made you feel foolish and grateful at the same time.” His gaze moved to my face, as though searching for pieces of her there. “We were together for almost a year.”
“My mother never told me.”
“She left before she knew she was pregnant. At least, that is what I believed for a long time.”
“What happened?”
A shadow crossed his features. “My family happened. Her family. Money. Fear. Pride. A dozen things that matter terribly to young people until they destroy what actually mattered.”
I stared at him, trying to fit this man into the empty spaces my mother had left behind. She had been gentle but guarded, always careful when I asked about my father. She told me he was gone. Not dead. Not cruel. Just gone.
When I was sixteen, I had found her crying over an old letter.
When she died, I found the photograph.
And the letter addressed to me.
If anything ever happens and you need help, find Adrian Cross.
I had never looked for him.
Pride, maybe.
Or fear.
Or the belief that if he had wanted me, he would have found me.
“Did you know about me?” I asked.
“No.”
The answer came quickly. Painfully.
“I swear to you, Elena, I did not know. Not until six weeks ago.”
Six weeks.
I felt my fingers curl against the blanket.
“You found out six weeks ago and didn’t contact me?”
“I tried.”
“No one called me.”
“Three calls were made to your personal phone. All went unanswered. Two letters were sent to your home in Denver. Both were signed for.”
My mouth went dry.
Victor.
Victor had always brought in the mail. Victor had replaced my phone after claiming mine was outdated. Victor had laughed whenever I misplaced things, calling me forgetful, especially during pregnancy.
“What did the letters say?” I asked.
“That I wished to speak with you privately regarding your mother’s estate.”
“My mother’s estate?”
