Isabella's face went white. The ledger she'd been holding slipped from her hands and hit the floor with a heavy thud.
"What?" she breathed.
The boy, no more than twelve years old, gasped for air. "My ma sent me to tell you. She lives next door to your father. She saw the fancy carriage arrive with Lord Thorne and a man carrying a doctor's bag."
Isabella was already moving, grabbing her coat from the office. "Dante, Tom, watch the warehouse. I need to—"
"I'm coming with you," Dante said firmly. There was no question in his voice, no room for argument.
Isabella looked at him, ready to protest, but something in his expression stopped her. She nodded once, and they hurried out together.
The boy led them through Ashford's winding streets toward the residential area where the mayor's house stood. It was a modest home, well-maintained but clearly belonging to a family whose better days were behind them. Isabella's father had never been wealthy, just respected.
Marcus Thorne's elaborate carriage sat outside like a predator at rest. Two of his large guards stood by the door, arms crossed. They straightened when they saw Isabella approaching, but their eyes dismissed Dante entirely.
"Let me through," Isabella demanded. "That's my father's house."
"Lord Thorne left instructions," one guard said. "The doctor is examining the mayor. No interruptions."
"I don't care about your lord's instructions. That's my father!" Isabella tried to push past, but the guard stepped into her path.
"Please don't make this difficult, Miss Grey."
Dante moved forward smoothly, positioning himself between Isabella and the guards. "She's going inside."
The guards noticed him properly for the first time. The first one smirked. "And who are you? The disgraced Blackwell? The traitor who does warehouse work?" He looked at his companion. "Should we be scared?"
"You should move," Dante said quietly.
Something in his voice made both guards hesitate. It wasn't a threat exactly. It was a statement of fact, delivered with absolute certainty.
Before anyone could act, the door opened. Marcus Thorne emerged, all smiles and false warmth. "Isabella! I was just about to send for you. Please, come in, come in."
"What are you doing in my father's house?" Isabella demanded.
Marcus placed a hand over his heart, the picture of wounded innocence. "I heard about your father's condition and wanted to help. I brought Doctor Aldrich from the capital. He's the finest physician money can buy. I thought perhaps he could offer a second opinion."
"My father has a doctor."
"A country doctor," Marcus said dismissively. "Doctor Aldrich has trained at the Royal Medical Academy. He's treated members of the court itself." Marcus's smile widened. "Consider it a gift. One neighbor helping another in a time of need."
Isabella's jaw clenched, but she couldn't refuse medical help for her father. She pushed past Marcus and entered the house. Dante followed close behind.
Marcus's eyes narrowed as Dante passed. "I don't recall inviting the help inside."
"I don't recall asking permission," Dante replied evenly.
For a moment, Marcus's pleasant mask slipped. Something cold and calculating showed through. Then the smile returned. "Of course. Everyone is welcome in a time of crisis."
Inside, Isabella's father lay in his bed, looking frailer than Dante remembered. The old mayor had always been a strong man, but illness had hollowed him out. A well-dressed man with a doctor's bag was examining him, checking his pulse and breathing.
"Father," Isabella said softly, kneeling by the bed.
The mayor's eyes opened. "Isabella? What's happening? This man said Lord Thorne sent him."
"I'm here now," Isabella assured him. "Everything's fine."
Doctor Aldrich straightened, snapping his bag shut with practiced efficiency. "Your father is quite ill, Miss Grey. His heart is weak. His lungs show signs of fluid buildup. Without proper treatment, I'd give him perhaps six months."
Isabella's hand flew to her mouth. "Six months? But Doctor Harris said he was improving."
"Doctor Harris is a fool," Aldrich said bluntly. "Your father needs specialized care. Medicine that isn't available in Ashford. Treatment that requires resources." He paused meaningfully. "Expensive resources."
Marcus appeared in the doorway, his timing perfect. "Which is why I wanted Doctor Aldrich to examine him. I thought you should know the truth of the situation." He moved closer, his voice dropping to something almost intimate. "Isabella, I know we've had our disagreements about the business. But this is about your father's life. Let me help. I have the money, the connections, the resources to get him the treatment he needs."
"At what price?" Isabella asked quietly.
Marcus spread his hands as if the answer should be obvious. "The price of friendship. Of partnership. Sell me the business at a fair price, accept my courtship, and I'll ensure your father receives the finest medical care available. Doctor Aldrich will stay in Ashford for as long as necessary. Money will be no object."
Dante watched the scene unfold with cold clarity. It was a masterful trap. Marcus had brought a real doctor who'd given a real diagnosis, making the threat to Isabella's father completely legitimate. Now she had to choose between her pride and her father's life.
"You're using my father's illness to manipulate me," Isabella said, her voice shaking with anger and fear.
"I'm offering to save his life," Marcus corrected smoothly. "There's a difference. The choice is entirely yours, of course. But choices have consequences. If you refuse my help and your father dies..." He shrugged eloquently. "Well, you'll have to live with that decision."
Isabella looked at her father, then at Marcus, then down at her hands. Dante could see her breaking, could see the impossible weight crushing her shoulders.
"How long do I have to decide?" she whispered.
"Take the week I originally offered," Marcus said generously. "Think it over carefully. Weigh what matters most to you—pride or family." He nodded to Doctor Aldrich. "The good doctor has left detailed notes for Doctor Harris. Follow them carefully, and your father should remain stable until you make your decision."
Marcus walked toward the door, then paused beside Dante. "You've been remarkably quiet, Blackwell. No opinions on the matter?"
Dante met his eyes steadily. "She'll make the right choice."
"I'm sure she will," Marcus said with a knowing smile. "After all, what kind of daughter would let her father die over something as meaningless as a failing business?" He tipped his hat to Isabella. "I'll return in one week for your answer. I do hope it's the answer we both know makes sense."
Marcus and Doctor Aldrich left, the guards following. The door closed behind them with a final-sounding thud.
Isabella collapsed into a chair beside her father's bed, tears streaming down her face. "What do I do, Dante? What do I do?"
Her father reached out weakly, taking her hand. "Don't cry, daughter. We'll find a way."
But they all knew there was no way. Marcus had them perfectly cornered. Isabella could sacrifice everything she'd worked for, or she could watch her father die.
Dante stood silently, his mind working through the problem with military precision. Marcus Thorne thought he'd won. He thought Isabella was helpless, that Dante was nothing, that this situation was under his complete control.
Marcus Thorne was wrong.
"Isabella," Dante said quietly. "Can you give me two days?"
She looked up at him, confused. "Two days for what?"
"To find another option."
"There is no other option, Dante. You heard the doctor. My father needs treatment that costs more money than I'll ever have. Marcus is the only one who—"
"Two days," Dante repeated. "Trust me."
Isabella stared at him through her tears, seeing something in his expression she'd never seen before. Certainty. Absolute, unshakable certainty.
"Okay," she whispered. "Two days."
Dante nodded and left the mayor's house. Outside, he watched Marcus's carriage roll away through Ashford's streets. The nobleman was probably already celebrating his victory.
But the game wasn't over.
Dante had spent five years being nobody, being invisible, being the warehouse ghost. He'd hidden himself away because revealing the truth would have complicated things, would have drawn attention he didn't want.
That time was ending.
That evening, Dante pulled a locked box from beneath his bed. Inside was something he hadn't touched in five years—a military-grade communication device and a sealed letter with the royal seal. At the bottom was a single name written in elegant script: "General Marcus Stone."