Chapter 4: The Shadow on the tarmac and the First Stitch

The glass double doors of the Drake-Vance Pediatric Trauma Center clicked shut, sealing out the damp morning smog of the city and leaving only the quiet, high-voltage hum of state-of-the-art diagnostic machinery.

In Trauma Bay 1, Daniel worked with a serene, terrifying efficiency.

The seven-year-old girl on the table had suffered a crushed chest and a compound femur fracture in the pileup on Highway 9. Her oxygen saturation was hovering at eighty-two percent, her pulse racing at a dangerous one hundred and sixty beats per minute. A lesser resident would have panicked under the cascade of flashing red warning lights on the monitor array.

Daniel didn’t panic. He moved like a conductor leading a silent symphony.

He held up two fingers to Maya, pointing sharply at the digital thoracostomy tray. Maya handed him a chest tube without a word. With three deft, razor-precise flicks of his scalpel, Daniel made a lateral incision along the fifth intercostal space, blunt-dissected through the intercostal muscle, and slid the plastic tube directly into the pleural cavity.

A sharp hiss of trapped air and dark fluid purred through the suction canister. On the overhead monitor, the girl’s oxygen saturation shot up instantly from eighty-two percent to ninety-seven percent. The harsh red warning lights dissolved into a steady, rhythmic green.

Maya let out a long breath behind her surgical mask, her eyes crinkling above the paper shield. She looked across the operating table at Daniel, whose forehead was lightly beaded with sweat, his hazel eyes completely focused as he began placing tiny, meticulous sutures along the subcutaneous tissue.

You’re faster than you were last month, Maya signed with her right hand while holding the retractor steady with her left. The new digital scope setup helps, but your hands are ridiculous today.

Daniel gave a modest, barely perceptible crinkle around his eyes. He didn’t use a tablet—his gloved hands were sterile—so he simply nodded toward the viewing gallery above the trauma bay.

Maya glanced up.

Standing behind the tinted, floor-to-ceiling smart glass of the second-floor observation deck was Roxana. She had discarded her blazer, standing in her tight black silk shirt with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows, her long golden-bronze arms folded across her chest. Beside her, Jaxson Miller stood like a stone sentinel, holding a secure satellite terminal.

Roxana’s eyes weren’t watching the monitors, nor were they watching the medical staff. Her amber-green gaze was locked entirely on Daniel’s hands—watching every subtle movement of his wrists, every precise twist of his suture needle, with a intense, hungry fascination.

She hasn’t moved a muscle in two hours, Maya signed, her eyes narrowing as she adjusted her grip. Daniel… she’s terrifying. Half the hospital staff is afraid to walk down the central hallway because her security guys look like they’re guarding a nuclear silo.

Daniel paused for half a second, his needle holder hovering over the skin. He looked up at the glass gallery, meeting Roxana’s burning green gaze through the shadow. He offered her a tiny, reassuring nod—a quiet signal that the patient was safe.

Through the smart glass, Roxana’s rigid posture visibly relaxed by a fraction of an inch. Her thumb lightly stroked her lower lip as a slow, intensely possessive smile touched her mouth.

She’s not a monster, Maya, Daniel signed back using rapid, single-handed fingerspelling while holding his instruments. She’s just… protective.

Protective? Maya let out a dry, quiet snort behind her mask. Daniel, she bought the hospital, bought the city debt, had her private army arrest your uncle, and threatened to bankrupt the state licensing board before breakfast. That’s not ‘protective.’ That’s a full-scale territorial takeover. You’re the prize in the middle of her empire.

Daniel didn’t sign back. He tied off the final knot on the girl’s incision, snipped the suture thread with surgical scissors, and laid a warm, gloved palm gently over the little girl’s forehead, feeling her pulse settle into a healthy, rhythmic thrum. He didn’t feel like a prize. He felt… anchored. For twenty-seven years, he had been an island—a silent, isolated spectator in a loud, aggressive world that either pitied him or tried to exploit him. But Roxana Drake didn’t pity him. She built an iron fortress around him and handed him the keys.

The surgical suite doors hissed open, and two pediatric nurses rolled in a recovery gurney to transfer the child.

Daniel stripped off his blood-stained gloves, tossed them into the biohazard bin, and walked over to the scrubbing sink. He washed his hands with cold, soapy water, scrubbing his long fingers until his skin was raw.

When he turned around, wiping his wrists with a paper towel, Roxana was standing in the doorway of the washroom.

She had stepped down from the gallery, her heavy leather boots making quiet, rhythmic thuds on the floor. Up close, her presence was almost overwhelming—the scent of rain, sandalwood, and raw physical energy radiating off her 5’11” frame.

She didn’t speak immediately. She reached out, her long, calloused fingers catching his wet wrist. She took the paper towel from his hand and gently, meticulously dried the back of his fingers herself, her thumb tracing the faint blue veins running along his skin.

“Four out of four,” Roxana said softly, her gravelly voice echoing in the small tiled room. “Jaxson just checked the ER log. All four children from the highway crash are out of surgery and stable.”

Daniel looked down at her hands wrapping around his. He gave her a small, modest tilt of his head. He reached for his tablet on the counter beside the sink, but Roxana caught his arm, stopping him.

“Don’t use the machine,” she murmured, stepping an inch closer until her black silk shirt pressed against his grey scrubs. She looked up into his warm hazel eyes, her amber-green gaze unblinking. “Talk to me with your hands, Daniel. I spent three hours last night learning.”

Daniel blinked, a sudden flush of warmth spreading up his neck.

He raised his free hand into the space between them. His fingers moved slowly, deliberately, simplifying his signs so she could follow: You stayed… the whole time.

Roxana’s eyes tracked his fingers with intense concentration. She raised her own hands, her wrapped, calloused fingers attempting the fluid shapes with clumsy, aggressive precision.

She signed three words back: My… place… here.

Daniel’s hazel eyes widened slightly. Her sign for ‘here’ was a little too sharp—it looked more like a challenge to a fight—but the intention behind it was crystal clear. A soft, genuine crinkle appeared around his eyes, and a quiet, breathless exhale escaped his lips—a sound that was as close to a laugh as his damaged vocal cords could manage.

Roxana froze at the sound. Her hand reached up instantly, her warm palm resting against the left side of his throat, right over the pale white scar that ran along his collarbone.

“Do that again,” she whispered, her voice dropping into a low, trembling register.

Daniel looked at her, his pulse throbbing directly beneath her palm. He shook his head gently, his fingers moving against her waist: Can’t speak.

“I don’t care about speaking,” Roxana growled softly, her thumb gently stroking the scar on his throat, her eyes burning with an intense, unhinged tenderness. “I want to hear that sound again. I want to be the only person in the world who hears it.”

Before Daniel could sign a response, the heavy emergency radio on Jaxson’s belt outside the washroom gave a harsh, double-beep chirp.

Jaxson didn’t enter the room—he knew better than to interrupt Roxana when she was close to Daniel—but his deep, urgent voice carried clearly through the doorway:

“Miss Drake. Satellite feed from the private airfield at Terminal 4. The charter flight from Chicago just touched down.”

Roxana didn’t move her hand from Daniel’s throat immediately. She held his gaze for two long, electric seconds, feeling his steady breath against her palm. Then, slowly, reluctantly, her fingers slid down his chest, her knuckles brushing against his heart before dropping to her side.

She turned her head slightly toward the door. “Who landed, Jaxson?”

“Dominic ‘The Anvil’ Varga,” Jaxson reported, his voice tight with professional tension. “Former heavyweight syndicate champion out of the Eastern bloc. He’s bringing eight armed contractors with him. They just cleared private customs under a security waiver issued by the Interstate Transit Authority.”

Roxana’s amber-green eyes narrowed into two razor-sharp points of green light. The soft, vulnerable woman who had just clumsy-signed three words vanished completely, replaced in a split second by the undisputed, bloodthirsty global champion.

“Dominic Varga,” Roxana muttered, her jaw locking hard. “Cassian’s primary muscle out of the Midwest. He thinks because he broke three ribs in the illegal circuits ten years ago, he can walk into my city.”

She turned back to Daniel. She reached out, catching his chin with her fingers, holding his soft hazel eyes locked onto hers.

“I have to leave for two hours,” Roxana said, her voice dropping into a low, heavy command. “You stay inside this ward. You do not step out onto the street. You do not go to the parking garage. Jaxson is leaving four tactical guys right outside this bay door.”

Daniel frowned sharply. He caught her hand, pulling her chin-hold away, his fingers flashing rapidly in front of her face: No more fighting. You bought the hospital. You cleared the board. Let the police handle them.

Roxana let out a dark, sharp chuckle. She stepped into his personal space, her lips almost touching his ear.

“The police don’t handle men like Dominic Varga, Daniel,” she whispered, her breath hot against his skin. “I handle them. I build things, and then I destroy anyone who tries to break them. This hospital is mine. You are mine. And I don’t let broken-down Midwest thugs bleed on my property.”

She pulled back, turned on her heel, and walked out of the washroom, her dark braids swinging against her broad shoulders.

Daniel stood by the stainless-steel sink, his heart hammering against his ribs in a sudden, sickening wave of anxiety. He grabbed his coat from the hook, pulled his tablet out, and sprinted out of the washroom toward the observation deck.

Through the glass, he watched Roxana walk down the central hallway of the ER. She didn’t put on her blazer. She pulled two fresh strips of dark black athletic wrap from her pocket and began wrapping her knuckles with tight, precise, rhythmic tugs as she walked, her heavy boots clicking like a death march against the linoleum.

Jaxson walked beside her, handing her a pair of custom carbon-fiber knuckle guards. “The transit authority waiver was signed by Senator Vance’s political committee, Miss Drake. They’re trying to set up an emergency jurisdiction claim over the waterfront district.”

“Senator Vance?” Roxana stopped mid-stride, her head snapping toward Jaxson. “Victor Vance’s older brother?”

“Yes,” Jaxson confirmed. “Daniel’s estranged uncle in the state capitol. He’s the financial backer behind Cassian Kross’s syndicate ties. He just authorized Dominic Varga to execute an emergency seizure of the St. Jude property line under a public domain domain clause.”

Roxana’s amber-green eyes flashed with a fury so deep it looked like liquid fire.

“Senator Vance,” she growled, her voice dropping into an absolute, apocalyptic whisper. “The whole parasite family thinks they can bleed Daniel dry.”

She turned to Jaxson. “Tell the convoy to meet us at Terminal 4. We aren’t waiting for Varga to reach the city limit. We’re breaking his legs on the runway.”

The private tarmac at Terminal 4 was a bleak, windswept concrete apron five miles outside the city proper.

Rain had begun to fall again—a cold, needle-like drizzle that misted over the high-intensity floodlights illuminating a sleek, matte-black Gulfstream G550 jet parked near Hangar 9. The engines were still whining down, throwing waves of heat and jet-fuel exhaust into the damp air.

Stepping down the mobile air-stairs was Dominic “The Anvil” Varga.

At forty-two, Varga was an absolute mountain of a man—six-foot-five, three hundred pounds of dense, iron-hard muscle wrapped in a dark leather trench coat. His head was completely shaved, covered in jagged scars from his years in unsanctioned European pit fights, and his left eye was milky white from an ancient, untreated orbital fracture.

Behind him filed eight heavy-set men in matching dark suits, carrying heavy tactical duffel bags over their shoulders.

Waiting on the tarmac, standing directly in front of a line of three black armored Maybachs whose headlights cut through the fog, was a thin, gray-haired man in an expensive wool coat.

Senator Marcus Vance stepped forward, holding a leather briefcase. He was Victor Vance’s older brother—a polished, ruthless political operative with cold blue eyes and a gold signet ring on his right hand.

“Dominic,” Senator Vance said, his voice clipped and efficient over the roar of the jet engines. “You’re late. The city licensing board collapsed this morning. Roxana Drake executed a complete debt buyout before my committee could table the condemnation motion.”

Dominic Varga stepped onto the wet asphalt, his massive leather boots crunching over the gravel. He spat a thick glob of tobacco juice onto the runway, his sound like a rusty hinge grinding open.

“I don’t care about your administrative boards, Senator,” Varga grunted in a thick, heavy Slavic accent. “Cassian Kross is sitting in an intensive care unit with a broken neck and four shattered ribs. The syndicate wants Roxana Drake’s head on a spike, and they want that mute little bastard doctor buried in the river before sunrise.”

Senator Vance nodded coldly. “The doctor is my nephew. He has proven to be a persistent obstacle to our family’s trust allocations. Once he is removed, I can re-claim legal control of the estate assets under the lineage survivorship clause. Do whatever you need to do, but make sure Drake Holdings cannot tie the physical assault back to my legislative office.”

“Don’t worry, old man,” Varga sneered, reaching into his trench coat and pulling out a heavy, steel-headed trench club wrapped in barbed wire. “By midnight, the billionaire champion will be begging for her life, and your mute nephew won’t have any hands left to write notes with.”

BOOM.

A single, explosive sound shattered the wet air—not a gunshot, but the sound of an iron bull-bar smashing through the perimeter security fence fifty yards away.

A heavy, custom-armored Ford F-700 security truck smashed through the chain-link barrier at sixty miles per hour, its heavy tires spinning on the wet grass before sliding to a violent, controlled stop across the runway, completely blocking the exit gate.

Behind the truck, three black Maybachs swerved into a broadside formation, their high-beam LED light bars flashing on simultaneously, blinding Varga’s men in a wall of ten thousand lumens of pure white light.

The doors of the center Maybach opened.

Roxana Drake stepped out into the rain.

She didn’t have a jacket. She wore only her tight black sleeveless top, her dark cargo pants, and her carbon-fiber wrapped knuckles. Her golden-bronze skin glistened under the bright white floodlights, her dark braids falling sharply over her shoulders as she walked forward alone into the middle of the wet tarmac.

Jaxson Miller and six tactical operators stepped out behind her, but Roxana raised one hand, halting them ten paces back.

“This runway belongs to Drake Holdings,” Roxana’s voice rumbled across the tarmac, cutting through the whine of the jet engines like a jagged blade. “You’re trespassing, Varga.”

Dominic Varga turned slowly, his single milky eye fixing on her frame. He let out a deep, booming laugh that sounded like rocks crushing together in a barrel.

“Roxana Drake,” Varga chuckled, taking three slow, heavy steps toward her, swinging his wire-wrapped club casually at his side. “The little girl who thinks winning sport belts makes her a real killer. Cassian told me you were fast. But speed doesn’t mean anything when iron hits bone.”

Roxana didn’t look at Varga’s club. She didn’t look at his eight armed men who were reaching into their duffel bags for submachine guns.

Her amber-green eyes slid right past Varga and locked onto Senator Marcus Vance, who was backing away toward the rear of the Gulfstream jet, his face pale with sudden realization.

“Marcus Vance,” Roxana said softly, her voice dropping into a register that made the hair on the back of Jaxson’s neck stand up. “Daniel’s uncle.”

Senator Vance straightened his wool coat, trying to maintain his political composure behind Varga’s massive frame. “Miss Drake! You are interfering with a federal transit inspection! I suggest you order your private guards to stand down before I have the National Guard mobilized to seize your corporate assets!”

Roxana took one step forward. Then another.

“Daniel spent six years in municipal foster care because of your family,” she said, her voice smooth, quiet, and terrifyingly clear. “You let his parents’ estate get pillaged by Victor. You tried to revoke his medical license. And now you brought a broken-down executioner to cut his hands off.”

She stopped three feet from Dominic Varga. She was five inches shorter than the massive syndicate fighter, but the raw, concentrated lethal aura radiating from her body made Varga’s massive frame look suddenly brittle.

“You have ten seconds to get back on that plane, Marcus,” Roxana whispered, her amber-green eyes glowing under the rain. “Because if I have to step past this big pig to get to you… I won’t stop until every bone in your body is dust.”

Varga spat on the asphalt between her boots. “Big words for a sport fighter.”

Varga swung the wire-wrapped trench club with blinding, terrifying speed—a horizontal arc designed to shatter her skull in a single strike.

Roxana didn’t duck. She didn’t retreat.

She stepped directly into the arc of the weapon.

Her left forearm—wrapped in black carbon-fiber—came up to block the strike mid-swing, catching Varga’s thick wrist before the club could reach maximum velocity. The impact sounded like two iron beams slamming together: CLANG!

Without missing a beat, Roxana’s right palm shot straight upward into Varga’s jaw—a short, brutal palm-strike that drove his massive three-hundred-pound head backward, snapping his teeth together with a sickening crunch.

Varga stumbled back two paces, blood spurting from his tongue, his milky eye wide with shock.

Before he could regain his footing, Roxana closed the distance with a terrifying, explosive blitz. She delivered three lightning-fast rib strikes into his midsection—BOOM, BOOM, BOOM—each punch carrying the full rotational force of her core, shattering his lower ribs through his thick leather coat.

Varga let out a wet, breathless roar, swinging his massive left hook.

Roxana slipped under the punch with effortless grace, caught Varga by his thick leather collar, and executed a flawless hip-throw, slamming the three-hundred-pound giant flat onto the wet, hard concrete of the runway.

THUD!

The impact shook the pavement.

Varga lay on his back, gasping for air, blood pooling on his lips as Roxana stood over him. She didn’t pause. She raised her right tactical boot and brought her heel down directly onto Varga’s right knee joint—

CRACK!

A horrific, unnatural crunch echoed across the open tarmac. Varga let out an ear-splitting shriek of pure agony as his knee bent forty-five degrees in the wrong direction.

Varga’s eight armed bodyguards froze in absolute terror. Not one of them pulled a weapon from their duffel bags. They stared at their legendary syndicate champion—broken, crying in agony in a puddle of rainwater—and then looked up at the golden-bronze woman standing over him, her knuckles wrapped in black tape, her breath rising in soft white plumes into the cold night air.

Roxana slowly turned her head toward Senator Marcus Vance.

The politician was falling backward against the air-stairs of the jet, his briefcase dropping into the wet dirt, his face completely drained of color as he stared at her.

“No…” Marcus gasped, his voice cracking like a child’s. “No… please… Miss Drake… it was a mistake… political pressure… I can resign… I can give you the trust fund…”

Roxana walked toward him, her razor-sharp heels clicking rhythmically against the wet metal stairs. She reached out, caught the senator by his wool collar, and pulled him down until his face was six inches from her glowing green eyes.

“You’re going to resign from the state senate tonight, Marcus,” Roxana growled into his face, her voice dripping with absolute, lethal dominance. “You are going to transfer every single dollar of the Vance family trust into a permanent, non-taxable medical endowment for the Drake-Vance Pediatric Center. And then you are going to take your brother Victor and leave this state forever.”

Marcus nodded frantically, tears streaming down his face, mixing with the rain. “Yes! Yes! Anything! Just don’t kill me!”

Roxana released his collar, letting him slump onto the bottom step of the air-stairs. She turned back toward her convoy, wringing out her wet braids with one hand.

“Jaxson,” she called out.

“Yes, Miss Drake?”

“Get the clean-up team down here,” she ordered, her voice dropping into a calm, businesslike tone. “Put Varga on his jet and fly him back to Chicago with a message for his syndicate bosses: if anyone else from the Midwest wants to buy real estate in my city, they better bring an army.”

Jaxson nodded grimly. “Understood, boss. And the senator?”

“He has two hours to sign the trust transfer documents,” Roxana said, stepping back into the dry warmth of her Maybach. “If he doesn’t, put him in the holding cell next to Cassian Kross.”

She slid into the leather rear seat, pulled her secure phone from her pocket, and checked her private camera feed from St. Jude’s.

On the screen, in Trauma Bay 1, Dr. Daniel Vance was standing over his fifth patient of the morning—a little boy with an arm fracture. Daniel was smiling warmly, his long fingers carefully wrapping a bright pink fiberglass cast around the child’s wrist, his soft hazel eyes radiating that quiet, magical peace that made Roxana’s violent soul drop to its knees.

Roxana stared at the screen, her thumb lightly tracing his face on the glass. The dark, bloodthirsty fury that had just broken a three-hundred-pound giant on the runway melted away entirely, replaced by that same intense, unhinged possessiveness that consumed her every waking breath.

“Drive back to the hospital,” Roxana commanded the driver. “Fast.”

By 2:00 PM, the storm over the city had passed, leaving behind a crisp, cool afternoon sun that washed over the clean glass facade of the Drake-Vance Pediatric Center.

Inside the quiet fourth-floor office of the Chief of Pediatric Trauma, Daniel Vance sat behind his mahogany desk.

The room was brand-new—furnished with deep leather armchairs, a high-end digital diagnostic station, and a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the pediatric playground below. On his desk sat a fresh paper cup of chamomile tea, a stack of clear lab results, and his sleek, uncracked medical tablet.

The heavy oak door to his office pushed open softly.

Roxana stepped inside.

She had showered and changed. She wore a stunning ivory-white silk blouse tucked into high-waisted dark grey trousers, her dark hair pulled back into a neat, elegant braid. Her wrapped knuckles were hidden inside her pockets, but as she walked toward his desk, Daniel’s sharp eyes caught the faint, tiny red scratch along the edge of her left collarbone.

Daniel stood up from his chair instantly. He walked around his desk, stopping directly in front of her.

He didn’t pick up his tablet. He looked straight into her amber-green eyes, his brows furrowed in deep, visible concern, and raised his hands into the warm sunlight filling the room.

His fingers moved with rapid, urgent precision: Where were you? You have a scratch on your neck. Are you hurt?

Roxana stopped. She looked down at his moving hands, then looked up into his soft hazel eyes. A soft, breathless smile touched her lips. She reached out, catching both of his hands in hers, stilling his frantic signing.

“I’m fine, Daniel,” Roxana murmured, her voice lower and softer than it had been all day. “Just… closing some old accounts.”

Daniel didn’t look convinced. He gently pulled his right hand free, reached up, and touched the faint red scratch on her collarbone with the tip of his long index finger. His touch was feather-light, filled with a quiet, reproachful tenderness that made Roxana’s breath hitch in her chest.

He lifted his hand and executed three slow, deliberate signs: No more blood. Promise me.

Roxana stared at his hazel eyes. She felt the incredible warmth of his body standing inches from hers, the quiet, unyielding moral strength of a man who spent his life stitching broken bodies together while she spent hers breaking them apart.

She stepped an inch closer, her chest touching his. She reached up, her long fingers lacing through the hair at the back of his neck, pulling his head down until their lips were barely a millimeter apart.

“I can’t promise no blood, Daniel,” Roxana whispered into his mouth, her amber-green eyes burning with a dark, eternal devotion. “Because if anyone ever tries to hurt you, or take this ward from you, or make you quiet again… I will burn the world down to keep you safe.”

Daniel didn’t pull back. He looked into her fierce, beautiful, crazy eyes and saw no monster—only a woman who loved him with a violent, terrifying intensity that matched the quiet, absolute depth of his own heart.

He closed the remaining millimeter of space between them.

His lips met hers in a kiss that was slow, deep, and startlingly gentle.

Roxana let out a small, shuddering gasp against his mouth, her hands gripping his hair tightly as the global champion—the woman who had never yielded an inch to any human being—completely surrendered to the silent, tender touch of a mute doctor.

Daniel’s arms wrapped around her broad waist, pulling her flush against his body, holding her tight against his heart, letting her feel the deep, steady, unshakeable pulse of the man who belonged to her now.

When they finally broke apart, both of them were breathing softly, their foreheads resting together in the warm afternoon sunlight filling the office.

Roxana smiled—a true, brilliant, radiant smile that transformed her golden-bronze face entirely. She brought her hand up, gently tracing his lower lip with her thumb.

“Jaxson brought lunch,” Roxana whispered softly. “Four-star Italian from the West Side. You’re eating with me today, Doctor.”

Daniel offered her a warm, glowing tilt of his head. He picked up his tablet from the desk behind him and typed a quick message:

“Only if you promise not to fire my chief resident for giving me a hard time about the new furniture.”

Roxana laughed—a rich, loud, musical sound that filled the sunlit office. “Fine. Maya stays. But she owes me a hundred dollars for the bet we made this morning.”

Daniel raised an eyebrow, typing: “What bet?”

Roxana leaned in, kissing his cheek softly. “A bet on how long it would take me to make you kiss me.”

Before Daniel could sign a sarcastic reply, the quiet intercom on his desk gave a sharp, high-pitched CHIRP.

Jaxson’s urgent voice came through the speaker:

“Miss Drake! Dr. Vance! We have an emergency alert from the pediatric isolation ward on Floor 6! A private medical transport plane just landed at the city helipad carrying a seven-year-old orphan from an international refugee facility—and the child’s file was personally flagged by the Global Medical Alliance!”

Daniel turned toward the desk instantly, his eyes narrowing in professional focus. He reached for his coat.

Roxana frowned, stepping beside him. “What’s the flag, Jaxson?”

“The child has an extremely rare, congenital cardiac anomaly—and the legal guardian listed on the intake manifest is Dr. Vance’s missing childhood mentor… Dr. Julian Vance.”

Daniel froze mid-stride. His tablet slipped from his fingers, clattering onto the mahogany desk.

His hazel eyes widened in absolute, breathtaking shock as he looked at the intercom speaker—the name of the man who had saved his life twenty years ago, the man who had vanished after his parents’ murder, echoing through the quiet sunlit room like a ghost rising from the dead.

Roxana saw the sudden, pale shock on Daniel’s face. She didn’t hesitate for a microsecond. She caught his cold hand in hers, squeezing it with absolute, unyielding iron strength.

“Jaxson,” Roxana growled into the intercom, her amber-green eyes locking onto the doorway with a new, dangerous focus. “Lock down Floor 6. Nobody touches that child or that doctor until Daniel and I walk into that room.”