Chapter 24

 Kian's POV

The fluorescent lights of the hospital room were too bright, and the sterile smell of antiseptic was too sharp. I woke to a dull, throbbing pain in my side, a constant, unpleasant reminder of the attack. My head felt clear for the first time in days, but my body was screaming protest. I was tethered to a machine that hissed rhythmically beside the bed.

My immediate thoughts weren't about my physical state, but about the security breach. Someone had gotten past all my protocols, past my assistant, and past the electronic locks.

My head hurt as I tried to remember. I didn't see his face, I didn't see the face of the one who stabbed me; it was all masked up, and he was dressed in black all through.

How he got past my security? I didn't know.

I groaned as I reached for the remote pad on the bedside table, wincing as the sudden movement pulled at the stitches beneath the bandages. I punched some numbers in the telephone close to me and brought it to my ear.

The call connected instantly. My voice was rough, strained, but laced with deadly authority. "It's Kian. I need you to drop everything. I want the entire audit of my tower security from twenty-four hours ago to the moment I was found. I don't care about the financials right now."

I paused, gripping the phone tightly. "Find out everything you can about the person who was stalking me. Get me the satellite feed, the street cameras—any visual data that captures Eliora Monroe's movements over the past forty-eight hours. I need to know who she spoke to, where she went. Find out everything you can." I needed to know if she was the next target.

I ended the call just as the door clicked open.

"Oh, Kian!"

My mother entered the room, her elegant designer clothes a jarring sight against the muted hospital palette. Her face was a mask of relief and concern, though her concern always felt performative. She rushed to the side of the bed.

"Thank God! You finally woke up! You've been out for a whole day!" she exclaimed, her hand hovering uselessly over my brow.

I pushed myself up, ignoring the protest of my injured muscles. The sheets were instantly tangled around my legs. The clothes I had been wearing—the suit that had been slashed—were gone, replaced by a thin, shapeless hospital gown.

"I have to leave," I told her, my eyes already scanning the chair where my belongings would be. "I have some important things to take care of."

"Leave? Kian, no!" She placed a hand on my arm, trying to force me back down. "The doctor said you need to rest. You just woke up!"

I was already sliding off the bed, pulling the gown free of the machine leads. I found the bag containing my pressed clothes and started dressing, ignoring my mother’s rising hysteria. The pain in my side was searing, but lying here was a greater risk. **Eliora could be in danger.**

My mother watched me, her relief quickly curdling into suspicion. "Don't tell me you are going to see her," she demanded, her voice sharp.

"Who?" I asked absentmindedly, pulling on a silk sock. I knew who she was talking about but I won't give her the satisfaction.

"Don't play jokes with me," she hissed, crossing her arms defensively. "You know who. That snake, Eliora Monroe."

She took a sharp, offended breath. "Did you know she hit me yesterday?"

The simple statement cut through the fog of my planning like a cold blade. I froze. I paused in the middle of buttoning my shirt, the movement of my hands ceasing entirely.

I turned to my mother slowly, the pain in my side momentarily forgotten. My gaze was cold, penetrating. "What did you just say?"

"She hit me," she repeated, her voice indignant, leaning into the accusation. "Me, your mother. How dare she? I swear I won't let her see the end of it, Kian. I will destroy her reputation if it's the last thing I do."

A primal, protective rage, hot and immediate, flooded my system. It was the same rage I felt when I learned she was engaged to Elijah. But this was worse. It was a direct threat.

I finished buttoning the shirt, pulling the fabric taut across my chest, a physical warning. My voice was low, lethal, a sound my mother rarely heard directed at her.

"Don't you dare hurt her."

Tonia laughed—a brittle, disbelief-laced sound. Her mouth dropped open, and her eyes flashed with genuine shock. "What? Kian, I just told you that bitch slapped me, and all you can say is you are more worried if I hurt her?" Her face was contorted in outrage.

"Seriously, Kian, what is it with that girl? She's nothing but a problem! She causes chaos wherever she goes! She's the reason you're in this hospital bed!"

The accusation was meant to stop me, to bring me back to my duty as her son. It failed.

I stepped closer to her, the physical exertion sending a spike of pain through my ribs, but I welcomed it. It kept me focused. My eyes locked onto hers, cold and unwavering.

"Then she's my problem," I said, my voice barely above a whisper, yet carrying more weight than a shout. "She is my problem, mother, so don't you dare lay a finger on her. If you don't want to see my wrath."

The unspoken threat—the dismantling of her social life, her finances, her legacy—hung heavy in the air. My mother stumbled back, recognizing the line I had just drawn. For the first time, her fury was replaced by true fear.

With that, I turned away from my shocked mother, retrieved my wallet and phone, and left the room.

My mind was a calculating machine: the attacker had sent a warning, a warning tied to Eliora. All my mother wanted was some petty revenge.

I knew her chaotic interference would only escalate the situation. I needed to put an end to this, and I needed to do it before or the mastermind managed to touch Eliora again.

I didn't trust Eliora. I believed she was lying about something. But she was the epicenter of this storm, and I wouldn't allow anyone else to touch her.

She was mine to handle.