Chapter 2: The Call

Ryker’s POV

The lights in the ballroom were too bright and the cameras kept flashing in my face. Freya stood beside me with her hand on my arm, smiling the way she had practiced in the car.

“Mr. Cross, one more for the society page,” a photographer called.

I turned my head the required angle. Freya’s grip tightened for a second.

“You’re quiet tonight,” she said under her breath.

“I’m here. That’s what you asked for.”

“I asked for a partner who looks like he wants to be standing next to me.”

“I am standing next to you.”

She kept the smile on for the next camera. “My father is watching from the mezzanine. Try not to look like you’re counting the minutes.”

A waiter passed with champagne. I took a glass I had no intention of drinking. Across the room someone laughed too loudly. The string quartet played something forgettable.

Freya’s publicist appeared at her elbow. “We need five minutes with the Journal reporter. They’re running the engagement as the lead tomorrow.”

“Give us a moment,” Freya said.

The publicist stepped back. Freya turned to me fully. “Is this about the board vote or about something else?”

“It’s about finishing the evening without a problem.”

“You left the office late. Your assistant said you had a private meeting.”

“I had a private meeting.”

“With whom?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

She studied my face. “You’ve been different for two weeks. Distant. Checking your phone like you’re waiting for bad news.”

“I’m managing a merger that could fall apart if one vote shifts. That’s enough reason to check a phone.”

“And the woman who used to work on the thirty-second floor? The one who stopped coming to the building?”

I looked at her. “Drop it.”

“I will when you stop acting like you’re somewhere else.”

My phone vibrated in my jacket pocket. I pulled it out. Unknown number. I almost declined it.

“Take it,” Freya said. “Maybe it will put you back in the room.”

I stepped away from the cameras and answered. “Cross.”

A man’s voice, calm and clinical. “Mr. Cross, this is Dr. Lang at St. Margaret’s Private. We have a patient brought in forty minutes ago. Hit and run. Critical condition. Her identification listed your company as emergency contact through an old employment file.”

My hand tightened on the phone. “Name.”

“Sienna Vale.”

The ballroom noise faded under the single word. “How critical?”

“Internal bleeding. Possible head trauma. She’s in surgery now. We need next of kin decisions within the hour.”

“I’m on my way.”

“Sir, the police are asking questions about the scene. There was a check with her belongings made out from one of your personal accounts.”

“I’ll handle the police later. Keep her alive.”

I ended the call. Freya was already beside me.

“Who was that?”

“I have to leave.”

“Now? In the middle of our announcement?”

“Yes.”

“Ryker, people are watching. My father is watching. You can’t walk out of your own engagement party without an explanation.”

“I just did.”

I handed the untouched champagne glass to a passing waiter and moved toward the exit. Blaze, my head of security, fell into step.

“Car’s ready,” he said. “Where to?”

“St. Margaret’s. Private wing.”

“Want me to clear the press at the door?”

“No. Just drive.”

Freya caught up at the coat check. “You’re not serious.”

“I am.”

“At least tell me what it is so I can manage the room.”

“It’s personal.”

“Personal enough to leave me standing here alone under every camera in the city?”

I stopped and looked at her. “Tell them I received urgent business news. Tell them whatever keeps the story clean until morning.”

“And in the morning?”

“We’ll talk then.”

I walked out into the rain. The car was already running. I climbed into the back seat. Blaze took the wheel and pulled into traffic without asking questions.

The city lights slid past the windows. My phone stayed in my hand. I almost called the hospital again. Instead I opened the last message thread I had with Sienna. Empty. I had deleted everything two weeks ago when the engagement became final.

Blaze glanced in the rearview. “You want me to call ahead and have them ready a private entrance?”

“Yes.”

“Anything else?”

“Find out which surgeon is operating. Get me the name.”

He made a short call while he drove. “Dr. Knox Sterling. Chief of surgery. Best in the city for trauma.”

I stared at the rain on the glass. “Keep the engine running when we arrive.”

Twenty minutes later the private clinic came into view. Emergency lights still flashed red against the wet pavement. Ambulances sat under the covered entrance. A security guard stepped forward as the car stopped.

I opened the door before Blaze could. The night air hit my face. I walked straight toward the glass doors.

Inside, the lobby lights were harsh and white. A nurse looked up from the desk. “Sir, can I help you?”

“Sienna Vale. Surgery. I’m the emergency contact.”

She checked a screen. “They’re still in the operating room. You can wait in the family lounge on the third floor. Someone will come when there’s news.”

I didn’t move toward the elevators. I stood there with the automatic doors still open behind me, rain dripping from my coat onto the polished floor, watching the corridor that led deeper into the building.

The emergency lights outside kept flashing across the glass, red and steady, like they were counting every second she might not have left.