Adrian's Pov

Rain patters softly against the windshield, each drop catching the glow of the hospital’s fluorescent lights before sliding down the glass in slow, tired streaks.

The engine hums beneath me—a low, steady vibration that does nothing to settle the storm building in my chest.

I sit in the passenger seat, elbows on my knees, eyes locked on the sliding glass doors of St. Rowan’s Medical Center.

The place looks harmless from the outside.

Quiet.

Clean.

Safe.

It’s a lie.

Everything connected to William Hayes is a lie.

Marcus taps something on the center console, bringing up a feed of live security footage on the screen—hallways, parking lots, entrances.

All hacked.

All looped.

All ready.

“Cameras are down,” he mutters around the lollipop in his mouth.

He crunches loudly. “Well… not down. Frozen. They’ll look alive until we take her. Then—poof—she disappears, and the footage shows nothing.”

“Good,” I say, though the tension coiled in me refuses to loosen.

The backseat rustles as someone shifts impatiently.

“She’s here,” Lizz says, voice sharp, confident, and entirely too pleased.

Elizabeth Grey.

Marcus’s lovely little sister.

Younger by three years, meaner by thirty.

She’s the definition of sharp heels and sharper words—every business rival fears her, every employee despises her, and somehow Marcus claims she’s “actually nice once you get to know her.”

I don’t want to get to know her.

I tolerate her.

Barely.

Lizz leans forward between the seats like she owns the damn car.

Her perfume—expensive, floral, and aggressive—floods the air instantly, making my jaw clench.

“Third pillar from the left,” she says, pointing dramatically through the windshield.

I follow her finger.

And there she is.

Elara Hayes.

Moving like a shadow trying not to be seen, her shoulders hunched, arms wrapped tightly around herself, hoodie pulled low like she’s trying to disappear into it.

Her steps are careful, guarded, each one taken like she expects someone to grab her from behind.

Fear trails her like a second skin.

She looks… smaller than she did in the surveillance photos.

Frailer.

Almost breakable.

And that shouldn’t matter.

It shouldn’t bother me.

But something about the way she flinches from passing headlights makes heat crawl under my ribs.

Not sympathy.

Just observation.

Just strategy.

I reach for the door handle.

Of course, that’s when Lizz pipes up again.

“I’m coming with you.”

Her tone is pure irritation wrapped in entitlement, like she’s announcing she’ll be joining me for brunch instead of a kidnapping.

My head snaps toward Marcus, who keeps chewing his lollipop like this isn’t his damn fault.

He raises both hands in surrender.

“She wouldn’t stay,” he says. “I tried.”

“No, he didn’t,” Lizz fires back. “He barely looked at me and said, ‘It’s dangerous, go home,’ like I’m five. I’m not five. I’m bored. Let me have fun.”

Fun.

She said kidnapping is fun.

I exhale slowly, turning the full force of my glare on her. “If I get caught, I’m handing you to them.”

Her bravado evaporates.

Instantly.

She sinks back into her seat so fast the leather squeaks, arms folding in a huff. “Rude.”

“Not a joke.”

“Didn’t sound like one,” Marcus mutters under his breath.

I shove the door open and step into the chilly night air.

The scent of wet pavement mixes with the sharp sterile smell drifting from the hospital entrance.

My boots splash into a shallow puddle, ripples spreading outward.

Behind me, Marcus calls quietly, “You good?”

No.

“Always,” I lie, shutting the door.

The rain softens to a mist as I move across the lot, keeping to the shadows, eyes fixed on the girl moving slowly toward the side entrance.

She doesn’t look back.

She doesn’t look around.

She just moves like someone taught her that visibility is dangerous.

My jaw clenches.

Everything about her posture screams survival.

Not privilege.

Not wealth.

Something else.

Something worse.

Lizz may be annoying, but she was right about one thing: Elara is hiding from something.

From someone.

And it isn’t just me.

I slow my pace, adjusting my steps so she won’t hear me.

Her hands tremble as she reaches for the door—small, pale fingers brushing the metal handle like she’s bracing for a shock.

The building swallows her whole when she slips inside.

I wait two seconds.

Then follow.

The hallway is cold, the kind of cold that sinks into your teeth.

The lights flicker overhead—old wiring, cheap bulbs, or maybe just a tired hospital pretending it still functions.

My footsteps echo softly, controlled, precise.

No alarms.

Marcus did his part perfectly.

Elara turns down a narrow corridor, heading toward the wing with the unmarked doors—the same ones she always enters, the same ones with no official record, no patient files, no medical staff listed.

The door closes behind her.

My pulse kicks.

This is it.

My move.

My opening.

The first step in dismantling the man who destroyed my life.

But then something unexpected hits me.

A sound.

Soft.

Barely audible.

A quiet, broken gasp from behind the closed door.

My fingers still on the handle.

My breath traps somewhere between my lungs and throat.

That sound wasn’t pain.

It wasn’t fear.

It was someone trying not to cry.

Something twists in my chest—something I don’t recognize.

Something unwelcome.

I shove it down. Hard.

Focus.

Target.

Objective.

I push the door open.

Not loudly.

Not dramatically.

Just enough.

Her head snaps up.

And for the first time—

Elara Hayes looks directly at me.