The antiseptic silence of the hospital hallway was a physical weight, heavier than the adrenaline crash from the park. But it was nothing compared to the leaden dread of telling the love of his life he had failed to bring their daughter home. Nate carried a sleeping Jace, his grip so tight the boy's jacket crumpled in his fist. A nurse's nod was his signal, a reprieve and a sentence.
He had his story. He had his alibi. The phone rang twice.
"Mr. Cross? Sir, yesterday was… It's all over the news. The gala, the shooting… your house. Is that why you left early? My God, are the kids—?"
"Hey, Ron. Listen," Nate's voice was a low, steady command, a dam against the chaos. "We'll debrief later. The kids are safe." He let the lie hang, solid and simple.
"Jema just gave birth. I've been at Meridian General all night. Now I need a favor. No questions." Nate took a breath, plunging into the deep end. "Scrub the Monaco trust. Liquidate it. The key is all the kids' birthdays. Backdate the transaction to yesterday, 9 p.m." He pulled up a digital ghost from a buried memory and texted Ron the address. "Send everything to this address."
A silence, filled only by Ron's shaky breath and the hum of the hospital.
"Yes, sir," Ron said, voice quiet but clear. "It might take five working days to clear, but… I can backdate it."
"That's all I need. And Ron…get me everything on Chymera."
He ended the call and took a deep breath before pushing the door open.
She was propped against the pillows, her skin waxy and pale against the starch-white linen. Every breath seemed a conscious effort; her eyes glazed with drugs and red-raw from tears. They found Jace, and a broken sob escaped her. She held out her arms, IV lines tugging, and Nate gently laid their son beside her.
"He's okay," Nate whispered, brushing hair from Jace's forehead. "He's perfect. Just scared."
"And Lila?" The words were a dry scrape in her throat. Her eyes, desperate and unfocused, darted toward the door, waiting for the other half of her heart to appear.
"They played us." He took her hand, his touch meant to be reassuring, but it was an anchor for his lie. "Jem… they doubled the ransom for her."
She flinched as if struck.
"Getting him back took everything," he said, leaning closer, making her world only him, only this story. "Victor… he came through. Five million. No questions asked." He hesitated, a masterful touch of shame crossing his features, and expected a reaction from Jema. "And I called Thomas Tate."
Her brow furrowed slightly. "Tate?"
"I know," Nate rushed on, preempting the question. "I swallowed every ounce of pride. I reminded him of our first meeting, when you made us shake hands. I told him our children were the only thing that mattered, and he agreed. Eight million. A loan against future shares." He let the number hang, staggering and specific. "The rest… I liquidated the Monaco trust. The one we set up after Lila's first birthday. It's gone. All of it. But we got Jace back."
Tears welled in her eyes, spilling over without a sound. She pulled Jace closer, her face buried in his hair, her shoulders shaking with a relief so profound it was indistinguishable from agony. "My daughter," she moaned into his scalp. "Oh God, Nate, our daughter."
"I'm already working on it. The platinum deal. The Saudis. I can get the rest. I'll get her back. I promised you I'd always keep this family safe." It was their oldest vow, made in a dark hospital room years ago. He was speaking directly to the deepest covenant of their marriage.
"Do it," she said, her voice suddenly clear and hard as diamond, cutting through her tears. "Sell it all. The company. The house. None of it matters."
He saw the storm in her eyes and reached for the TV remote. "…a night of terror…" the anchor intoned. The screen showed the train wreck, their shattered front door, and the gala's chaos. It changed to the wrecked Koenigsegg in the river. "…the driver, the main suspect of the shooting of Thomas Tate, is presumed dead. We are also learning that multiple witnesses place Thomas Tate stepping out of the main ballroom minutes before the heist began. He was reportedly on the phone. The shot was heard just moments after the thieves left."
The remote clattered to the floor.
Jema's eyes, still swimming with tears, flickered from the news report to his face. The lawyer in her, a ghost of her former self, stirred. "Tate?" she murmured, the crease in her brow deepening. "He was on the phone… right before… He was shot, Nate. The news—"
"He must have done it then," Nate said, his voice low with dawning, horrified realization. He looked at her as if he'd just pieced it together himself. "He stepped out… made the transfer. Eight million. He was coming back inside when… when they shot him." He let the awful irony of it hang in the air, a tragic twist of fate. "The man tried to destroy me for a decade, and his last conscious act was to save my son."
A flicker of logic ignited behind her eyes, a spark seeking fuel. But it met the utter wall of her physical ruin—the searing pain, the chemical fog, the crushing weight of the cancer diagnosis, the overwhelming relief of holding Jace. The spark guttered and died. Of course, Nate was telling the truth. He was her Nate. He kept his promises.
She tried to sit up, a fresh wave of anxiety breaking over her. "You can't go to Riyadh now, you haven't slept—"
A sharp wince cut her off. Nate was instantly there, his hands gentle but firm on her shoulders, easing her back. "Shhh, don't," he whispered, brushing a kiss onto her forehead. "You need to rest. You need to heal. Let me do this. Let me fix this."
Before she could answer, the nurse walked in. "Alright, Mrs. Cross, that's quite enough excitement. You need to rest."
Nate seized the opportunity. "Nurse, can my chauffeur, LaRue, stay? With everything that has happened… I don't want them to be alone."
"We can arrange that. For her safety."
"Thank you." He kissed Jema's forehead once more. "I love you. I will be back soon."
He gathered a drowsy Jace and walked out. As the door shut, the expression of weary concern vanished from his face, replaced by the cold, focused resolve of a man going to war.
He found LaRue standing sentry by the station, a monument of silent assessment.
"LaRue."
The big man turned. His gaze was that of a guardian, not an employee. He took in Nate's face, the sleeping boy, and understood everything.
"I have to go. Take care of them."
LaRue did not nod. He simply reached out his massive, gentle hands and took Jace, cradling him like glass.
"The house is broken, sir. The family is not." His voice was a deep, quiet rumble. "I do not drive the car for the leather seats, sir. I drive it to clear the road. That is what I will do here. No one will reach them. You have my word."
Nate gave a single, sharp nod. He turned and walked away, leaving his heart in the care of the most dangerous man he knew.