Engines roared to life. The ambulances surged ahead, lights screaming through the darkness as the convoy tore back along the winding mountain paths toward the festival's medical tent.
Calling it a tent was a lie everyone politely agreed to ignore.
This was a sprawling, state-of-the-art medical facility wrapped in luxury canvas—part field hospital, part billionaire panic room. Inside were MRI machines, surgical suites, and enough medical tech to treat a small country, all courtesy of the conference's smug promise of "maximum security."
Rafael sat rigid in the ATV, fury coiling tighter with every second.
How did this happen?
This place crawled with guards, drones, thermal sensors, and enough surveillance tech to spot a mosquito sneezing at fifty meters. And yet Eliana—his Eliana—had been out there. Alone. Pregnant. With Jason Asher.
The conclusion felt obvious. Too obvious.
Asher had lured her out. Some pathetic attempt at reconciliation. A conversation that had gone wrong.
