Lexi sat up again—grinning wickedly.
"Let him be more eager," she said. "Don't answer yet. Let him sweat. Let him send another one. Maybe a third. Make him chase. The longer he waits, the more desperate he gets. The more desperate he gets… the more leverage you have."
Jade nodded—exhaling smoke slowly.
"Exactly. Right now he's just a fanboy. Cute. Harmless. Give it a day or two—let him double-text, triple-text, maybe even slide into your main account. When he's begging… that's when you decide what to do with him."
Isadora's lips curved—slow, dark, dangerous.
"Rowan's little brother," she murmured. "Obsessed with me. While she's crying because of me."
She locked the phone.
Tossed it onto the table.
Leaned back—arms draped along the sofa back, eyes on the ceiling.
"Let him be more eager," she echoed softly.
Lexi grinned—laying her head back on Isadora's thigh.
"Tomorrow's session is gonna be fun," she said.
Jade chuckled—low, knowing.
"Tomorrow she finds out her kid brother's simping for the woman who's ruining her."
Isadora closed her eyes—smile still in place.
"Tomorrow," she whispered, "I walk in wearing the same perfume she smelled on me today. And I tell her exactly what her little brother said."
She exhaled—slow, satisfied.
"And I watch her face when she realizes… even her own family is falling for me."
The room went quiet again.
Only the city hummed outside—indifferent, endless.
And in Brooklyn, Noah Blackwood stared at his phone—hoping for a reply that hadn't come yet.
Smiling like an idiot.
Completely, blissfully, dangerously oblivious.
While Isadora Ravencroft—high, angry, obsessed—planned exactly how to use his innocence as the next weapon.
Rowan pushed open the brownstone door just after 7:30 p.m., the familiar smell of Clara's cooking greeting her like an old friend—roasted chicken, rosemary, garlic, the faint sweetness of whatever dessert was cooling on the counter.
The hallway lamp glowed warm, casting soft shadows across the scarred wood floor. For once, the knot in her chest loosened a little on its own.
She kicked off her shoes, hung her coat, and padded toward the kitchen.
Clara was at the stove, apron tied over her cardigan, humming softly while she stirred a pot of mashed potatoes. Noah sat at the small table—homework spread out but ignored, phone in hand, scrolling with the half-distracted grin of someone who'd just discovered something exciting online. He looked up when Rowan entered.
"Hey, Ro," he said, voice bright. "You're home early."
Clara turned, smile instant and warm.
"There she is," she said, wiping her hands on a dish towel. "Come here, sweetheart. Sit. Dinner's almost ready."
Rowan managed a small, tired smile and dropped into a chair. Clara crossed the room, cupped Rowan's face in both hands, and kissed her forehead like she was still twelve.
"You look exhausted," Clara said softly. "Rough day?"
Rowan shrugged—light, practiced. "Just long. Nothing I can't handle."
Clara studied her for a second—eyes too knowing—but didn't push. Instead she squeezed Rowan's shoulders once and turned back to the stove.
"Family time tonight," she announced, voice deliberately cheerful. "No hospital stories. No charts. No pagers. Just us. Food. Laughter. Maybe a movie after. Noah, put the phone down before I take it."
Noah groaned but obeyed—setting his phone face-down on the table.
"Fine, fine," he said. "But only if we watch something good. Not another one of your old rom-coms, Mom."
Clara laughed—light, easy.
"Deal. Your sister picks."
Rowan shook her head—smiling despite herself.
"Pass. I just want to eat and crash."
Dinner passed in gentle rhythm—plates passed, small talk about Noah's basketball practice, Clara's book club drama, the neighbor's new dog that kept barking at 6 a.m. No one mentioned the hospital. No one mentioned Isadora.
Why would they? Noah didn't breathe a word about the DMs he'd sent to a certain billionaire heiress's Instagram. Why would he? It was just a harmless crush—560 million followers, too cool, too charming, nothing to do with his sister's "rough week at work."
Clara set dessert on the table—warm apple crisp, vanilla ice cream melting on top—and sat back down, eyes soft on Rowan.
"You're going with Carlos tomorrow?" she asked gently, no pressure, just quiet hope.
Rowan looked down at her plate—spoon tracing patterns in the melted ice cream.
"Yeah," she said quietly. "Coffee."
Clara's smile bloomed—warm, relieved, maternal.
"Good," she said softly. "You should start your life now, sweetheart. Be happy. You've carried so much for so long. Let someone carry a little for you."
Noah glanced up—curious but not prying.
"Carlos?" he asked. "Mrs. Delgado's nephew? The lawyer guy?"
Rowan nodded—small, almost shy.
"Yeah. Just coffee. Nothing big."
Noah grinned—easy, teasing.
"Cool. He seems nice. Mom's been hyping him up for months."
Clara laughed—light, fond.
"He is nice. And he's been asking about you since last summer. Be kind to him, Rowan. He's nervous."
Rowan managed another small smile—thin, but real.
"I'll be kind," she said.
They finished dessert in comfortable quiet—plates cleared, dishwasher loaded, the three of them moving around each other in the familiar dance of family. No questions about work. No mention of tears or trembling hands or a seventeen-year-old heiress who'd kissed her cheek and trailed a fingertip down her chest.
Just warmth.
Just normal.
Just home.
Later, Rowan climbed the stairs to her room—door closed, lights off, phone face-down on the nightstand. She lay in the dark, staring at the ceiling.
Saturday.
Coffee with Carlos.
A shield.
A rumor.
A chance to make Isadora believe she'd lost.
She closed her eyes.
Tried not to think about tomorrow's session.
Tried not to think about Isadora's dark eyes, her whispered dares, the way her voice had cracked when Rowan mentioned Ryan.
But she fell asleep anyway.
Dreaming of nothing.
Because even in sleep, she refused to give Isadora Ravencroft any more space.
The private study on the seventy-eighth floor was lit only by the single desk lamp and the cold blue glow of the city beyond the glass wall.
Everett sat in his high-backed chair—cane across his lap, untouched scotch sweating on the coaster. The clock on the mantel showed 11:47 p.m. The penthouse had gone quiet hours ago, but sleep was never an option when family business bled into the night.
Bianca entered without knocking—robe replaced by a charcoal cashmere cardigan, hair still perfect despite the hour. She closed the door softly and crossed to stand in front of the desk, posture straight but eyes careful.
"Dad," she began, voice low and measured, "I need to tell you what happened."
Everett didn't look up from the single page in front of him—Bellevue's latest confidential note on Isadora's second session.
Bianca continued anyway.
"Isadora came home furious. She attacked Ryan. Grabbed his collar, punched him—split his lip, blood everywhere. Mia tried to stop her; she shoved Mia aside like she was nothing. She was screaming about Ryan going to the doctor, about him trying to take what's hers. She looked… unhinged. Violent. Out of control."
Everett finally lifted his gaze—slow, unreadable.
"She hit him for no reason," Bianca pressed, voice rising just enough to show concern. "Ryan was bleeding on the sofa. He didn't provoke her. She just… snapped. This isn't normal teenage rebellion anymore. This is dangerous. She's becoming a liability. The board will see the bruises tomorrow. They'll ask questions. We need to act before—"
Everett raised one hand—small, sharp gesture. Silence.
He set the page down.
"Don't play too modest, Bianca," he said quietly. "You're covering for Ryan. You always do. You show me Isadora's mistake only—never his part in it. Never the whispers, the meetings, the way he's been circling the doctor like a vulture waiting for the body to drop."
Bianca's lips thinned.
"I'm telling you what I saw," she said. "She assaulted him. In our home. In front of Mia. That's not—"
Everett cut her off—voice low, final.
"Isadora is wrong," he said. "But she never does anything without a reason. And you know it. So does Ryan."
Bianca opened her mouth—ready to argue.
Everett's eyes narrowed.
"Next time you come to me," he said, "come with truth. All of it. Not half the story dressed up as concern."
Bianca swallowed—once—then tried again, softer.
"She's escalating. If we don't—"
Marcus appeared in the doorway—silent until now. Shirt untucked, face drawn, eyes hard.
He stepped inside. Closed the door behind him.
"Don't," he said—voice low, dangerous. "Don't say her name again tonight."
Bianca turned—surprised.
Marcus looked straight at Everett.
"She's trying," he said quietly. "She's set herself on the path you demanded. She's left the drugs. She's taking therapy. Daily. At Bellevue. She's cooperating. All of it. Exactly what Dad said he wanted."
He stepped closer—hands loose at his sides, but tension in every line of his body.
"I won't bear anything against her now," he continued. "Not from Ryan. Not from you. Not from the board. Not from anyone. She's my daughter. She's the heir. And she's fighting—harder than any of you ever gave her credit for. If you push her again—if you use her obsession with the doctor to manufacture a scandal, to force Connecticut, to hand everything to Ryan—you'll have to go through me first."
Silence.
Thick. Heavy.
Everett looked at his son—long, measuring.
Then at Bianca—whose face had gone pale, lips pressed thin.
He tapped his cane once—soft, final.
"Go to bed," he said quietly. "Both of you."
Bianca hesitated—then turned. Walked out without another word.
Marcus stayed.
Everett looked at him again.
"You really believe she can change?" he asked—almost gently.
Marcus exhaled—slow, tired.
"I believe she's trying," he said. "And that's more than I ever expected. If we crush her now… we lose her. And we lose the only bloodline heir we have."
Everett studied him a long moment.
Then nodded—once.
"Protect her, then," he said. "But remember what I said earlier. If she endangers the name—if she forces our hand—you'll have to choose."
Marcus turned.
Walked out.
The door closed.
Everett sat alone.
He stared at the empty chair.
At the city lights.
At the legacy he'd built.
And for the first time in decades—he felt the weight of it shift.
Not because of Ryan's ambition.
Not because of Bianca's plotting.
But because of Marcus's quiet, stubborn love.
And because—somewhere in the tower—Isadora slept, unaware that her father had just drawn a line in the sand.
A line that might save her.
Or destroy them all.
The consult room door opened at 9:00 a.m. sharp.
Isadora stepped inside—today in a charcoal cashmere turtleneck that clung to her collarbones, black tailored trousers, the same gold watch catching light on her wrist. Her hair was down, dark waves framing her face, but there was something new in her posture: less calculated seduction, more coiled fury barely leashed. A faint bruise shadowed her right knuckles—fresh, purple-red, the skin split in one small place.
She closed the door. Sat. Crossed her legs. Met Rowan's gaze without the usual smirk.
Rowan sat behind her desk—white coat buttoned, chart open, pen already moving. She looked up slowly, eyes flicking once to Isadora's hand before returning to her face.
"Good morning, Ms. Ravencroft," she said evenly. "Session begins now. We'll start with—"
"Finally free from your family backbiting?" Rowan cut in—voice low, deliberate, every word chosen to slice. "No more whispers from Ryan about how unstable you are. No more plotting from Bianca and Mia to lock you away. Must feel… liberating."
Isadora's eyes narrowed—pupils flaring for a heartbeat.
Then she smiled—slow, dangerous, almost proud.
She leaned forward—elbows on knees—until the desk was the only thing keeping distance between them.
Rowan didn't move.
Isadora lifted her right hand—slow, deliberate—and traced one fingertip along Rowan's cheek. Feather-light. Warm. The bruised knuckles brushed skin just enough to leave the faintest ghost of purple.
"I punched him," Isadora said softly—voice velvet over steel. "Split his lip. Told him no one gets to you, darling. Not him. Not anyone."