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Chapter Four

Sebastian’s POV

Knowing she was bleeding out in some cheap bed while the bastard, Preston, was fooling around with Darcia made me want to strangle something.

That thing, apparently, happened to be the pen with which I was supposed to use in signing a contract.

I sat at the head of the conference table, watching the lead investment manager, Henderson, lean back with that smug, self-important smirk plastered across his fat face.

These people were stressing the fuck out of me.

They had spent the last two hours playing childish psychology games—stalling over minor indemnity clauses, pretending to walk away, pushing for another fraction of a percentage point like they were doing me a personal favor by bringing forty million to the table.

Normally, I had the patience of a predator. I would have let them drag their little performance out until they exhausted themselves, then stripped their equity down to the bone before letting them sign.

However, the sudden call from Saint Mary’s emergency dispatch forty-five minutes ago had derailed my mood.

Hearing a stranger yell that Addie was hemorrhaging while her husband sent the call to voicemail made a dark, violent urge wrap around my throat.

I didn't have time for boardroom theatre. I needed to get the hell out of this building.

I set the weighted fountain pen down on the glass with a clack that cut Henderson off mid-sentence.

I looked pointedly at the four men across from me, letting my gaze linger on Henderson until his arrogant smirk began to twitch at the corners.

"I'm done here," I said, my voice dropping into a flat baritone.

Henderson blinked, adjusting his silk tie with a nervous laugh. "Excuse me, Sebastian? We still haven't settled the arbitration jurisdiction for the offshore branch."

"I don't care," I replied.

"You don't care?" Henderson scoffed, looking around at his partners like I had lost my mind. "Greene, this is a forty-million-dollar joint venture. You're supposed to be negotiating the terms with us. If you walk out of this room without our signatures, this entire quarterly expansion falls apart."

They honestly thought they had me backed into a corner. What, they thought I was going to sweat, plead, and offer concessions just to keep their names on the dotted line?

I gave Henderson a slow, pointed, are-you-seriously-doing-this-shit-right-now look.

I let out a sigh, unbuttoned my jacket, and stood up from the executive chair.

"I've already said everything that needs to be said," I told them, resting one palm flat against the frame. "The valuation is non-negotiable. The operational control stays with my board. I have personal matters to handle, and I'd prefer not to drag this circus out for another second."

I turned my back on them and reached for my coat.

Before I could take a step toward the double doors, the vibration of my personal phone buzzed against my chest.

I pulled it from my pocket, unlocking the screen.

Addie.

A sudden, wave of relief settled the tight knot behind my ribs. The fact that she was holding a phone and typing meant the surgical team had stopped the bleeding. She was awake.

I opened the notification and read her words:

Let's meet as soon as you're free. I want to know exactly what I get out of six months of fooling around with you.

A dark smirk touched the corner of my mouth.

The naive little wife was finally dead. The fire had officially started.

I tapped out a quick, four-word response:

On my way, White Rose.

I slid the phone back into my pocket, turned around, and looked at the four clowns frozen at the end of the table, raising an eyebrow with an unasked question on my face.

Henderson swallowed hard, looking at the door, then at the open contract.

"Give me the pen," Henderson muttered, his arrogance dissolving into panic as he realized I was genuinely about to walk out and leave his firm behind.

He scribbled his name across all three master copies in five seconds flat.

I stepped forward, signed my own clean, jagged signature on the line, tossed the pen onto the paper, and walked out without saying another word.

Twenty minutes later, my driver pulled up to the curb outside Saint Mary’s Hospital.

I took the private elevator down to the corner cafeteria on the ground floor, my eyes scanning the room until they locked onto the small table by the far glass window.

Addie was sitting there alone in an oversized gray hospital sweater, clutching a paper cup of lukewarm tea.

The change in her was jarring.

She looked like the life had been sucked out of her eyes. The soft, gentle warmth she carried yesterday—that desperate, trusting glow of a woman fighting to save her marriage—was completely gone.

Her skin was pale, her dark hair tangled, and her gaze was hollow, staring at the raindrops sliding down the glass pane.

We had Preston and Darcia to thank for that.

I walked over, pulled out the plastic chair opposite her, and sat down.

I didn't bother offering fake sympathies. I didn't ask how she was feeling or mention that I'd told her I was right.

I just tilted my head slightly, crossing my arms over my chest, waiting for her to find her voice.

The silence between us stretched for nearly a minute, filled only by the low sound of the vending machines and the distant chatter of nurses down the hall.

Finally, Addie pulled her gaze away from the rain and looked directly at me.

"I've thought about it," she whispered, her voice rough, hoarse, and stripped of every

illusion. "And I—"

"Big sis?"

A voice chimed from behind my shoulder.

Addie went rigid.