Chapter 7
They loaded me into the back of an armored SUV—medical team already inside, bags of blood hanging from hooks welded to the ceiling. Not a hospital, but close enough.
My daughter lay on my chest, strapped in with me, her warmth the only thing keeping me from slipping under.
The city blurred past the tinted windows. I caught fragments—blue lights, blocked intersections, Roman's convoy cutting through traffic like a blade.
Then we stopped.
The door opened, and there he was.
Victor Ashford.
My father looked like he'd aged ten years since I left. His hair was silver now, all of it. Deep lines carved his face. But those eyes—cold, calculating, lethal—hadn't changed at all.
He saw me. Saw the blood, the bandages, the baby on my chest.
His whole body went still.
I'd seen my father order men killed without blinking. I'd seen him smile through threats, laugh during negotiations that ended in ruin. I'd never, not once, seen him freeze.
"Hi, Dad."
His jaw worked. Nothing came out.
He reached into the SUV, touched my face with fingers that trembled. Touched the baby's head, feather-light. Then pulled back, turned, and walked three steps away.
His shoulders shook once. Just once.
When he turned back, his face was a mask again. But his eyes were red.
"Who," he said quietly. Not a question. A demand.
"Derek Calloway. My husband." The word tasted like poison. "And his girlfriend. Vivian Cross."
He nodded. Slow. Like he was writing it in stone.
"And the doctor?"
"I don't know his name. Park, she called him. He cut me open with no—" My voice broke. I couldn't finish.
I didn't need to. Roman was already in my father's ear, giving him the full rundown. Every detail. Every minute.
My father listened without expression. When Roman finished, the silence stretched long and cold.
Then: "Bring them both to the estate. Alive. I want them awake for what comes next."
Roman nodded once and disappeared.
Dad climbed into the SUV beside me. Took my free hand—the one not holding the baby—and held it between both of his.
"I should never have let you go," he said. His voice was rough, barely controlled.
"Dad—"
"I watched from a distance. Told myself you were happy. Told myself you didn't need the life I had. And I let a man like that—" He stopped. Swallowed. "I will never forgive myself for this."
"You found me. That's what matters."
"Eleven minutes later and you'd have been dead, Elena. The medic told me. Eleven minutes."
I squeezed his hand. "I'm not dead. I'm right here. And so is your granddaughter."
He looked down at the baby. Something in his face softened—just barely, just for a second.
"Does she have a name?"
"Not yet. I was going to name her after Mom."
His breath caught. Just slightly.
"Sophia," he said quietly.
"Sophia," I agreed.
He leaned back in the seat and closed his eyes. His hand didn't let go of mine.
"They're going to wish they'd never been born, Elena. I promise you that."
I believed him.
My daughter lay on my chest, strapped in with me, her warmth the only thing keeping me from slipping under.
The city blurred past the tinted windows. I caught fragments—blue lights, blocked intersections, Roman's convoy cutting through traffic like a blade.
Then we stopped.
The door opened, and there he was.
Victor Ashford.
My father looked like he'd aged ten years since I left. His hair was silver now, all of it. Deep lines carved his face. But those eyes—cold, calculating, lethal—hadn't changed at all.
He saw me. Saw the blood, the bandages, the baby on my chest.
His whole body went still.
I'd seen my father order men killed without blinking. I'd seen him smile through threats, laugh during negotiations that ended in ruin. I'd never, not once, seen him freeze.
"Hi, Dad."
His jaw worked. Nothing came out.
He reached into the SUV, touched my face with fingers that trembled. Touched the baby's head, feather-light. Then pulled back, turned, and walked three steps away.
His shoulders shook once. Just once.
When he turned back, his face was a mask again. But his eyes were red.
"Who," he said quietly. Not a question. A demand.
"Derek Calloway. My husband." The word tasted like poison. "And his girlfriend. Vivian Cross."
He nodded. Slow. Like he was writing it in stone.
"And the doctor?"
"I don't know his name. Park, she called him. He cut me open with no—" My voice broke. I couldn't finish.
I didn't need to. Roman was already in my father's ear, giving him the full rundown. Every detail. Every minute.
My father listened without expression. When Roman finished, the silence stretched long and cold.
Then: "Bring them both to the estate. Alive. I want them awake for what comes next."
Roman nodded once and disappeared.
Dad climbed into the SUV beside me. Took my free hand—the one not holding the baby—and held it between both of his.
"I should never have let you go," he said. His voice was rough, barely controlled.
"Dad—"
"I watched from a distance. Told myself you were happy. Told myself you didn't need the life I had. And I let a man like that—" He stopped. Swallowed. "I will never forgive myself for this."
"You found me. That's what matters."
"Eleven minutes later and you'd have been dead, Elena. The medic told me. Eleven minutes."
I squeezed his hand. "I'm not dead. I'm right here. And so is your granddaughter."
He looked down at the baby. Something in his face softened—just barely, just for a second.
"Does she have a name?"
"Not yet. I was going to name her after Mom."
His breath caught. Just slightly.
"Sophia," he said quietly.
"Sophia," I agreed.
He leaned back in the seat and closed his eyes. His hand didn't let go of mine.
"They're going to wish they'd never been born, Elena. I promise you that."
I believed him.