Chapter Nineteen
The VIP recovery suite at Ashford General Hospital was bathed in the sterile, artificial light of early afternoon.
Ten days after the shooting, the room had been aggressively domesticated.
Massive floral arrangements, towering stacks of vintage books, and an absurd number of cashmere throws had been brought in to soften the clinical edges, but it was still, undeniably, a hospital.
And Kinsley Bennet was over it.
She was currently pacing the length of the hardwood floor, dragging the wheeled IV pole behind her. She wore a loose, charcoal-grey Henley that belonged to Cruz, the neckline stretched wide over the bandaging that covered her left collarbone and chest.
"I am just pointing out the fundamental flaw in your logic, Cruz," Kinsley argued, jabbing a finger toward the closed door of her suite.
"There are currently four private security contractors standing in the hallway.
Four! To get into this wing, you need keycard access, a retinal scan, and the blessing of an archangel.
Who, exactly, do you think is going to breach the perimeter? "
Cruz Tate sat in the plush leather armchair near the window.
He was dressed impeccably in a dark suit, his tie loosened, a tablet resting on his knees.
He looked exhausted, yet profoundly, terrifyingly alert.
Since the afternoon Gabriela Monroe had fired that weapon, the icy titan of industry had returned, weaponized and hyper-focused on the preservation of the woman pacing before him.
"The security detail remains, Kinsley," Cruz said, his voice a low, vibrating rumble that offered zero room for negotiation. "Until you are safely behind the gates of the Sanctuary, they will stand exactly where they are."
"It’s excessive!" Kinsley huffed, stopping her pacing to glare at him, her chaotic curls bouncing around her face.
"I am in a hospital, Cruz. What do you think is going to happen?
Is an assassin going to disguise themselves as an orderly and try to smother me with a despair-jello cup?
I am a captive. I have no privacy. I am practically a hostage. "
Cruz let out a slow, deep breath, setting his tablet on the side table. He didn't argue the logistics. He didn't try to reason with her chaotic defiance. He simply stood up, closing the distance between them with a few long strides.
He moved his hands gently around her waist, avoiding her injured shoulder, and pulled her flush against his solid chest.
"Cruz, I am making a valid point about civil liberties," Kinsley protested, tilting her head back to look at him, her eyes flashing with stubborn fire.
"You are making a lot of noise," Cruz murmured, a devastatingly handsome, deeply affectionate smirk touching his lips.
He leaned down, capturing her lips in a kiss that was slow, deep, and consuming.
He kissed her until the rant died in her throat, until her hands naturally came up to grip the lapels of his suit, and the frantic fluttering of her heart drowned out the sterile hum of the hospital room.
When he finally pulled back, Kinsley was breathless, a brilliant, furious blush staining her cheeks. She glared up at him, though her eyes were shining.
"That is cheating," she whispered, her voice lacking any real conviction. "You can't just kiss me every time I’m right."
"I am kissing you because you are alive," Cruz corrected softly, resting his forehead against hers, his dark eyes burning with an uncompromising devotion.
"I am kissing you because every time I close my eyes, I see you bleeding on that patio.
So, the guards stay. Let me be excessive, Kinsley. Just for a few more days."
Kinsley’s defiance melted completely. She let out a soft, exasperated sigh, resting her cheek against his chest, listening to the steady, reassuring thud of his heart.
From the velvet sofa by the window, Marcy Dane looked up from the novel she was reading, her dark eyes dancing with serene amusement.
She watched her soul-sister surrender to the billionaire’s protective gravity.
Kinsley was safe. She was healing. And for Marcy, that was the only thing in the universe that mattered.
***
Forty stories above the bustling streets of the city, the atmosphere in the Lancaster-Tate Executive Building was suffocatingly tense.
The sprawling, glass-walled conference room on the fifteenth floor was silent. Kade Lancaster, Cruz Tate, Leon, and Connor sat around the obsidian table, reviewing the aggressive acquisition of the media syndicates that had attempted to breach their airspace weeks ago.
A soft chime from the intercom broke the silence.
"Mr. Lancaster," the voice of Kade’s executive assistant floated through the speaker, tight with professional anxiety. "Arthur and Camille Monroe are in the reception area. They are requesting a brief meeting."
The temperature in the room plummeted.
Cruz went rigidly, terrifyingly still. His dark eyes hardened into chips of obsidian. The pen in his hand snapped with a sharp, violent crack, the ink spilling over the polished table.
Kade’s jaw locked, his frame tensing as the protective instincts that governed his soul roared to life.
Leon and Connor exchanged a quick, highly guarded look.
They all knew the reality of the situation.
The FBI investigation had been swift and quick.
Arthur and Camille Monroe were innocent of the shooting.
They had been in Europe when their daughter had covertly flown back to the coast, acquired an illegal firearm, and attempted to murder Kinsley Bennet.
The parents had no prior knowledge of Gabriela’s unhinged plot.
"Send them in," Kade commanded, his voice a low, gravelly rasp.
The glass doors slid open.
Arthur and Camille Monroe walked into the boardroom.
The sight of them was jarring. The once-untouchable, flawlessly manicured elite of Ashford Heights looked broken.
They had aged twenty years in the span of a few months.
Arthur’s shoulders were slumped, the arrogant posture of a billionaire titan completely gone.
Camille’s face was pale and gaunt, her eyes hollow and ringed with dark shadows of grief.
They stood near the door, looking at the four men who now controlled the destiny of their legacy.
A slight, microscopic twinge of sympathy flickered in the very back of Cruz’s mind as he looked at the devastated parents. They were suffering. But the sympathy was instantly, violently incinerated by the memory of Kinsley.
Cruz remembered the smell of copper on the patio.
He remembered the five agonizing days of silent hell in the ICU, sitting beside a bed and begging the universe not to take the love of his life.
He remembered the sheer, soul-crushing terror that had nearly broken his mind.
No matter how bad Camille and Arthur felt, it was a fraction of the despair Cruz had endured because of the monster they had raised.
Kade shared the exact same ruthless sentiment.
He looked at Camille, remembering the way she had once slapped Marcy across the face in a hospital waiting room, blaming her for Gabriela’s actions.
No amount of parental grief could adequately compensate for Marcy’s tears, for the sheer terror Marcy had suffered while Kinsley hovered between life and death.
"Why are you here, Arthur?" Kade asked, his voice devoid of any warmth.
Arthur cleared his throat, his hands trembling slightly as he clasped them in front of him. "We are not here to ask for leniency for our daughter, Kade. We know what she did. She is beyond our help, and she will face the consequences of her actions."
"Then what do you want?" Cruz demanded, the words snapping through the room like a whip.
Camille stepped forward, a tear slipping down her hollow cheek. "We want to ask a favor. We are asking to speak with Marcy."
Cruz’s eyes narrowed into lethal slits. He didn't say a word. If they had asked to speak with Kinsley, he would have had security physically throw them out of the building before they could take another breath. He would never allow them near Kinsley again. But Marcy... that was Kade’s decision.
Kade stood up, his towering frame casting a long shadow across the table. "You have lost your minds if you think I am going to let either of you anywhere near my fiancée."
"Please, Kade," Camille wept, pressing her trembling hands to her mouth.
"Gabriela has been in the federal psychiatric holding facility for two weeks.
She is completely unhinged. She refuses to speak to the lawyers.
She refuses to speak to the doctors. She screams constantly. She is... she is delusional."
"And how does that involve Marcy?" Connor asked quietly, stepping forward, his brow furrowed in confusion.
Arthur looked down at the floor, the shame of a father echoing in his voice.
"She thinks Marcy can save her. Gabriela is convinced that if Marcy comes to see her, the spell will be broken.
She believes Marcy will forgive her, and that everything will go back to normal.
The psychiatrists believe that if Marcy were to just speak to her, to definitively tell Gabriela that the friendship is over...
it might force a break in the delusion. It might allow them to actually begin treating her. "
The boardroom was silent. They were asking the woman whose life Gabriela had systematically destroyed, the woman who had watched her sister take a bullet meant for her, to walk into a federal prison and offer closure to a psychopath.
Kade looked at the broken parents. "I will not ask Marcy to do that. The meeting is over."
The return to the Sanctuary was a highly orchestrated logistical feat.
Kinsley Bennet was finally home. The sunlit coastal estate felt incredibly different after weeks in a sterile hospital room. The smell of the ocean, the sound of the wind in the pines, it was a beautiful, overwhelming relief.