"I'm… not ready," she said quietly. "Not right now."
Mrs. Delgado's expression softened—understanding, not disappointment.
"Then when you are," she said gently. "But don't wait forever, Rowan. Life is short. And you—" She reached across, squeezed Rowan's hand once. "—you deserve someone who looks at you like you hung the moon. Not like a challenge."
Rowan managed a watery smile.
"I know," she whispered.
Mrs. Delgado patted her hand once more, then stood.
"Eat," she ordered softly. "Then rest. Tomorrow's another day."
She bustled toward the stove again, humming under her breath.
Rowan stared at the bowl—comfort food, comfort words, comfort she hadn't realized she needed.
She picked up the spoon again.
Took another bite.
And for the first time since Isadora's fingertip had trailed down her chest, the ache in her ribs eased—just a little.
She wasn't happy.
Not yet.
But she wasn't breaking.
Not tonight.
And tomorrow—when Isadora walked back into that consult room—she would remember this moment.
The warmth of home.
The kindness of people who loved her without wanting to own her.
The quiet strength that had carried her through worse than one obsessive heiress.
She would remember.
And she would hold the line.
Even if it killed her.
The main living suite was hazy with smoke—thick, sweet, curling lazily toward the high ceiling. Isadora sat between Lexi and Jade on the velvet sofa, legs kicked up on the coffee table, joint halfway to her lips. The tequila bottle was down to a quarter; empty shot glasses littered the tray alongside the mirror still dusted with white residue. Music played low from Jade's phone—something dark and bass-heavy that matched the slow, satisfied haze settling over them.
Isadora took a long drag, held it, then exhaled slow through her nose, eyes half-lidded.
"Tomorrow," she murmured, voice rough from smoke, "I'm gonna make her cry again. But this time… I want her to beg me to stop. And keep going anyway."
Lexi laughed—soft, wicked—head resting on Isadora's shoulder.
"You're evil," she said fondly. "I love it."
Jade leaned forward to relight the joint when Isadora's phone buzzed sharply on the glass table—once, twice, insistent.
The screen lit up.
Father
Isadora froze.
"Shit," she whispered. "Shit shit—he's gonna see."
The joint dropped from her fingers onto the tray. She lunged forward, swiping the phone before it could ring out loud. The name stared back at her—cold, accusing.
Lexi sat up straight. "Answer or ignore?"
"Neither," Isadora snapped, already moving. "He'll know if I don't pick up. He always knows."
She stood—fast, unsteady from tequila and adrenaline—joint forgotten, eyes darting around the room like a cornered animal.
"Clean this shit up," she hissed at Jade and Lexi. "Now. Hide everything. He'll have security check the cameras, the trash, the vents—everything."
Jade was already on his feet, scooping the mirror and baggies into a small velvet pouch he pulled from his pocket.
"On it," he said, calm but quick. "Go answer. Stall him."
Lexi grabbed the tequila bottle and shot glasses, disappearing toward the wet bar to rinse them under running water.
Isadora took one deep breath—trying to steady her voice—then swiped to answer, putting the phone to her ear.
"Father," she said, forcing her tone even, almost bored. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
Marcus's voice came through—low, controlled, edged with the same cold disappointment she'd heard a thousand times.
"Isadora. I trust your first session went… productively."
She leaned against the wall, free hand raking through her ponytail, trying to smooth the wild strands. "It was fine. Standard intake. She asked questions. I answered. Nothing dramatic."
A pause—long enough to make her stomach twist.
"I've received preliminary notes from Bellevue administration," Marcus said. "Dr. Blackwood flagged 'persistent boundary-testing behavior.' Care to explain?"
Isadora's heart slammed against her ribs.
"She's dramatic," Isadora said smoothly. "Overreacting. I was honest. Maybe too honest. She's not used to patients who don't lie to make her feel better."
Another pause.
"Security reported you were… close to her at the end of the session," Marcus continued. "Physical contact. A kiss on the cheek. A touch."
Isadora closed her eyes for half a second—picturing Grayson's report, the cold efficiency of it.
"It was nothing," she said. "A goodbye. European custom. She overreacted. Again."
Marcus exhaled—slow, measured, dangerous.
"You promised cooperation," he said. "No incidents. No scandal. If Dr. Blackwood files a formal complaint—if this escalates—I will have no choice but to enforce the Connecticut clause immediately. Do you understand?"
Isadora's free hand clenched into a fist at her side.
"Perfectly," she said, voice steady now. "I'll behave. Tomorrow will be… professional."
"Good," Marcus said. "I expect daily updates. And Isadora?"
She waited.
"Do not test me again."
The line went dead.
Isadora lowered the phone slowly, staring at the blank screen.
Behind her, Jade reappeared—hands empty, evidence vanished. Lexi stepped out from the wet bar, drying her hands on a towel.
"He knows?" Lexi asked quietly.
"Not everything," Isadora said. "But enough."
She turned—face pale, eyes dark.
"We're on thin ice," she said. "No more in the house. No more risks. He'll have the place swept tomorrow. Cameras, dogs, the works."
Jade nodded once—serious now.
"We'll clean the pipes. Flush everything. Use the safe spots in the city from now on."
Lexi stepped closer, brushing a strand of hair from Isadora's face.
"You okay?"
Isadora exhaled—shaky, almost a laugh.
"No," she admitted. "But I will be. Tomorrow. When I walk back into that room and see her face again. When I make her remember exactly why she can't stop thinking about me."
She straightened—blazer settling, posture snapping back into place.
"Tonight we sleep," she said. "Tomorrow we play."
Lexi and Jade exchanged a look—worried, loyal, ready.
Isadora walked to the window—city lights sprawling below like fallen stars.
And smiled—small, dangerous, certain.
Marcus could threaten.
Everett could watch.
Rowan could cry.
But Isadora Ravencroft was already planning the next move.
And this time?
She wouldn't just flirt.
The Ravencroft Tower's executive study on the seventy-eighth floor was lit only by the low glow of desk lamps and the city skyline bleeding through the glass. Marcus sat behind the massive ebony desk, sleeves rolled, tie loosened, a tumbler of scotch untouched beside the latest Bellevue progress report on Isadora. The paper lay open to the single flagged line: Patient exhibits persistent boundary-testing behavior with sexualized verbal content toward provider.
Marcus rubbed his temple once—slow, exhausted—then looked up as the door opened without a knock.
Ryan stepped in—tuxedo jacket off, shirt collar open, expression carefully neutral but eyes sharp.
"Father," Ryan said, voice low, respectful. "I thought you should hear this before the board meeting tomorrow."
Marcus gestured to the chair opposite without speaking.
Ryan sat—posture straight, hands folded on his knee like a man delivering a report rather than a knife.
"It's about Isadora," Ryan began, careful to keep his tone even, almost regretful. "Last night at the party… she was reckless. Again. The way she danced with Dr. Blackwood—hands everywhere, whispering in her ear, practically grinding on the floor. Half the board saw it. The European partners were asking questions. 'Is the heiress stable enough for succession?' They didn't say it outright, but they didn't have to."
Marcus's jaw tightened—barely perceptible.
Ryan continued, voice dropping softer, more confiding.
"I tried to intervene. Offered to cut in, give the doctor a break. Isadora snapped at me like I was the enemy. Called me a 'Ravencroft-by-marriage' in front of witnesses. It's not just the optics, Father. It's the pattern. She's not just spiraling—she's dragging the name down with her. Every headline, every rumor, every time she disappears on a yacht or overdoses in public… it chips away at the share price. At investor confidence. At the empire you built."
He paused—letting the silence do the work.
"I'm not saying disinherit her," Ryan said carefully. "The trusts are bloodline-locked. But… perhaps it's time to consider stronger measures. Connecticut. Full guardianship. Or at least a conservatorship review. For her safety. For the family's stability."
Marcus stared at the report without really seeing it.
Ryan leaned forward slightly—voice almost gentle now.
"She's young. Reckless. But she has everything. The trusts. The name. The wealth. Everything Grandfather locked to her blood so no one else could touch it. And she treats it like a toy she can break. Meanwhile the rest of us… we work. We protect the brand. We smile for the cameras. We clean up her messes. And we get crumbs."
He exhaled—soft, almost pained.
"I just… I worry. For her. For you. For what happens if the board decides she's too great a liability. They'll find a way around the bloodline clause eventually. Public pressure. Competency hearings. They always do when the share price bleeds."
Marcus finally looked up—eyes cold, unreadable.
"You think she's a liability," he said quietly.
Ryan met his gaze—steady, earnest.
"I think she's destroying herself," he answered. "And taking the family down with her. We have to protect the legacy. Even if it means protecting her from herself."
Marcus tapped one finger once on the desk—slow, thoughtful.
"I'll handle it," he said at last. No warmth. No agreement. Just finality.
Ryan stood—nodding once, respectful.
"Of course, Father."
He turned to leave.
At the door he paused—back to Marcus—voice dropping so low it was almost inaudible.
"She doesn't deserve it all," he murmured. "Not when she's willing to burn it down just to feel something."
The door closed behind him—soft, expensive, final.
Marcus sat alone in the study.
The progress report stared back at him.
He reached for the scotch—finally lifted it.
And drank.
Deep.
While somewhere across the city.
The suite had gone quieter after the tequila shots—music turned low, smoke thinned to faint wisps, the city lights outside the floor-to-ceiling windows the only bright thing left. Isadora sat on the edge of the sofa now, elbows on knees, staring at the empty tray where the joint and mirror had been minutes ago. Lexi perched cross-legged beside her, chin in hand, studying Isadora like she was trying to solve a puzzle that kept changing shape.
Lexi broke the silence first—voice softer than usual, no teasing edge.
"Tell me one thing," she said. "Why are you hiding these drugs? Kind of thing. You used to leave lines out like they were coffee table books. Now you're vacuum-sealing and stashing like a paranoid freshman."
Isadora didn't answer right away. She rubbed her thumb over the face of her gold watch—slow circles, grounding herself.
"Because if I don't," she said finally, voice low and flat, "they'll send me away from her."
Lexi blinked once—slow realization dawning.
"Connecticut," she said quietly. "The facility. No visitors. No passes. Locked down."
Isadora nodded once—sharp.
"Everett made it clear. One positive screen, one missed session, one whisper of scandal—and I'm gone. Not just out of the city. Out of her reach. No hospital. No consult room. No daily hour where I get to sit across from her and watch her pretend she doesn't feel it."
Lexi leaned back against the cushions, exhaling through her nose.
"We can run," she said. "Escape again. Yacht. Private jet. Fake names. We've done it before. We can disappear for a while—let them cool off, then come back when the heat dies."