Chapter 4

The private medical wing was quiet except for the rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor.

Horace sat up in bed, his face like thunder. The heart attack had been a fake, but the rage burning inside him was real enough to stop a truck.

Dr. Cromwell walked in, holding a printed report. His hands were shaking. He stopped at the foot of the bed and swallowed hard.

"The lab rushed the results, sir," Dr. Cromwell said, his voice barely a whisper. "The root of the Ghost Lily was injected with a concentrated variant of arrowwood extract."

Horace's hand tightened around the glass of water on his nightstand. "Explain."

"The toxin vaporizes in the heat," the doctor said. "It mimics the exact symptoms of congestive heart failure. It's untraceable in a standard autopsy."

The glass shattered in Horace's grip. Shards bit into his palm. Blood dripped onto the white sheets. He didn't feel the pain. He only felt the cold certainty of death dodged.

The crazy girl was right. If she hadn't thought that, he would be planning his own funeral right now.

"Find out who put that plant in my house," Horace ordered, his voice like gravel.

Ten minutes later, Reginald returned. The butler looked pale. "The purchase order was traced, sir. It was a gift. From your grandson, Cristian."

The door to the medical room opened before Horace could respond.

Cristian Sweeney strode in. He wore a perfectly tailored navy suit, not a single wrinkle in sight. His eyes were red, his face a mask of agonizing worry. He crossed the room in three long strides, dropped to one knee beside the bed, and grabbed Horace's uninjured hand.

"Grandfather, thank God you're alive," Cristian said, his voice cracking. "I am so sorry. It's my fault."

Horace stared down at the man he had groomed to take over his empire. "What are you talking about, boy?"

"The orchid," Cristian said, his head bowed in shame. "I bought it for you at Sotheby's last month. I wanted to give you something rare." He pulled a thick manila folder from his briefcase and placed it on the bed. "I didn't know... I hired a new botanical manager. He must have been paid off by a competitor."

Cristian opened the folder, revealing a signed confession and a police receipt. "I fired him immediately. He admitted to tampering with the soil. The police have him in custody now."

It was flawless. The crisis management was smooth, the evidence irrefutable. The blame was shifted entirely away from the Holden heir.

Horace looked at his grandson's tear-streaked face. A chill settled in his bones that had nothing to do with the air conditioning.

If he hadn't heard Cilla's thoughts, he would have believed every single word. He would have patted Cristian on the back and thanked him for his loyalty.

But the truth was glaring. The golden boy was a viper.

Horace forced his hand to relax. He patted Cristian's hand, a grandfatherly smile stretching his lips. "It's not your fault, son. These things happen. It was an accident."

Cristian let out a long, shaky breath. For a split second, a flash of cold triumph flickered in his eyes.

"I'm just glad you're safe, sir," Cristian said, standing up. "I'll let you rest."

"Cristian," Horace said, stopping him at the door. "Wait."

Cristian turned, his smile polite and expectant.

"I'm getting old," Horace said, his voice weary. "I need my family around me. I've decided to make a change."

Cristian's smile didn't waver, but his posture stiffened.

"Cilla will not be going back to the facility," Horace announced. "She is a Holden. Flawed or not, she stays in this house. She will be treated by the best doctors money can buy."

The mask slipped for a fraction of a second. Cristian's jaw tightened. His pupils shrank. "Grandfather, is that wise? She's unstable. The family's reputation-"

"My decision is final," Horace snapped, his eyes hard enough to cut glass. "She stays."

Cristian bowed his head. "Of course. Whatever you think is best." He turned and walked out, his footsteps echoing down the hall.

The moment the door clicked shut, Horace's warmth vanished. His face turned to stone.

"Reginald," he barked. "Move Cilla into the East Wing. The room next to mine. Double the security detail. No one gets near her without my approval."

He looked at his bleeding hand, his mind racing. The mad girl wasn't mad. She was a weapon. And she was his weapon now.

Down the hall, Cilla stood in the doorway of her newly assigned room, watching the staff carry in her meager belongings. Her brow furrowed.

This wasn't the plan, she thought, a flicker of unease settling in her stomach. The old man should be dead. Why is he keeping me close?