The screen was already locked passcode prompt staring back at her.
"Open it," she said, voice low but firm. "Now."
Noah swallowed hard, eyes darting between her face and the phone. For a second she thought he might refuse.
Then he reached out, thumb hovering over the sensor.
Before he could press it, Rowan sighed and pushed the phone back into his hands.
"Never mind," she said, softer. "Just… sleep now, okay? Put it on the charger across the room. No more tonight."
Noah nodded quickly too quickly clutching the phone to his chest like a shield.
"Yeah. Promise. Night, Ro."
She ruffled his hair once old habit then turned to leave.
"Goodnight, kid."
She closed the door behind her with a soft click.
In the hallway, Rowan paused, hand still on the knob.
She hadn't seen the screen. Hadn't needed to.
Rowan exhaled slowly.
She walked back to her room steps heavier now.
She didn't check her own phone.
Didn't search @isadoraravencroft.
But as she slid under the covers, the silence felt thinner.
Like something was listening.
Waiting.
And she knew deep in the part of her that still ached that ignoring it wouldn't make it go away.
It would only make the eventual crash louder.
>>>>>>>
Isadora arrived at Ravencroft Global's executive floor at 8:45 a.m. early, deliberate, no entourage.
She moved through the glass corridors in a charcoal gray suit, heels silent on the marble, nodding politely to assistants who still whispered behind her back.
In the boardroom, she took her seat for the morning strategy huddle on the expo rollout: timelines, speaker prep, media packets.
She spoke only when necessary sharp, concise suggestions on patient testimonial sourcing and live demo logistics.
No drama. No edge.
The room listened. Marcus gave her one approving glance before moving on.
By noon she was in her private office floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, desk clean except for expo binders and a single black coffee.
She was reviewing vendor contracts when the door swung open without a knock.
Lexi strode in first leather jacket, ripped jeans, grin wide. J
ade followed, sunglasses pushed up into her hair, carrying two iced lattes like peace offerings.
"Miss Perfect Heiress," Lexi announced, kicking the door shut. "We're here to corrupt you."
Isadora didn't look up from the contract. "You're late. I said 12:15."
Jade dropped into the leather chair opposite the desk, sliding one latte across to her.
"Traffic. And we stopped for these. Decaf for the nun."
Isadora finally glanced up small smirk tugging her lips. She took the latte, sipped once, then leaned back.
They talked for twenty minutes easy, familiar. Club gossip Lexi had heard, Jade's latest hookup disaster, a quick roast of Ryan's latest Instagram thirst trap.
Laughter bounced off the glass walls real, unguarded, the kind Isadora hadn't let out in weeks.
Then Lexi leaned forward, elbows on the desk.
"So… what's next in the 'good girl' era? You gonna ask Everett to let you out of prison?"
Isadora set the latte down.
"I'm going to ask him to approve hospital visits. Therapy sessions. Official, scheduled, documented. He'll say yes he wants to believe I'm 'committed to recovery.'"
Jade snorted. "Therapy. Right."
Lexi's grin turned wicked. "It's not for therapy, is it, Dora?"
Isadora's eyes flicked between them cool, unreadable.
"It's for therapy," she said evenly. "That's what I'll tell them. That's what the logs will show. That's what the family will hear."
Jade leaned in closer, voice dropping to a teasing whisper.
"Bullshit. You're going to see her. You're gonna sit in that sterile little office, pretend you're talking about your feelings, and spend the whole hour eye-fucking your doctor until she cracks."
Lexi laughed, slapping the desk lightly.
"Admit it. You've got the whole script in your head already. 'Oh Doctor Blackwood, I'm so sorry for my past behavior… let me make it up to you… on my knees...'"
Isadora's smirk deepened just a fraction. She didn't blush. Didn't deny.
"I have to say it's for therapy," she repeated, voice low, deliberate.
"To them. To the records. To Everett. If I walk in there and say 'I need to see Rowan because I can't stop thinking about how she tasted,' they'll chain me to the house until I'm thirty."
Jade cackled. "So it's a performance. Oscar-worthy good-girl act, just to get face time with your obsession."
"Exactly." Isadora tapped a pen once against the desk slow, controlled.
"I play the role. I get the access. And when I'm alone with her… no cameras, no family breathing down my neck… then we'll see how long her 'professional distance' lasts."
Lexi whistled low. "You're scary when you're patient."
Jade raised her latte in a mock toast. "To therapy. And to the day she finally begs."
Isadora clinked her cup against theirs quiet, certain.
"To therapy," she echoed.
They laughed again three voices in sync, sharp and knowing.
Outside the office, the city hummed on.
Inside, Isadora Ravencroft was already counting down the hours until she could drop the mask.
Just for a little while.
Just long enough to remind Rowan exactly what she was missing.
>>>>>>>>
At the hospital, Rowan was in the staff lounge during a rare quiet stretch between shifts. She sat at the small round table with Sara and Emma, picking at a half-eaten yogurt while they sipped coffee from paper cups.
The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, and the faint smell of antiseptic clung to everything.
Emma leaned forward first, eyebrows raised with that gentle, nosy concern.
"So… how was the dinner with Carlos and the moms? Clara texted me this morning saying it was 'lovely.' Spill."
Rowan forced a small shrug, keeping her voice even.
"It went good. Normal family stuff. Empanadas, coffee, small talk. Mrs. Delgado brought dessert."
Sara tilted her head, smiling like she was already picturing wedding invitations.
"And Carlos? He's such a sweetheart. Did he walk you to your car after? Hold your hand under the table? Come on, Ro, give us something."
Rowan stirred her yogurt unnecessarily.
"He was… nice. Polite. We talked about work mostly. Nothing dramatic."
Emma exchanged a quick look with Sara both of them clearly not buying the flat tone, but they didn't push too hard.
Sara leaned back, grin widening.
"Okay, but seriously what about marriage? Aunt's been dropping hints for months. Mrs. Delgado too. You two would be so cute together. Stable careers, good families… you could finally settle down and stop looking so haunted all the time."
Rowan's spoon paused mid-stir. She set it down carefully.
"No. Marriage isn't… I'm not thinking about that. Not now. Not with anyone."
Sara laughed softly, teasing but affectionate.
"Oh come on. Carlos is perfect for you. Reliable. Kind. Doesn't come with a tabloid subscription or a private jet full of drama. Admit it you're tempted."
Emma nodded, joining in.
"Yeah, Ro. Isa's been radio silent for weeks. No club sightings, no creepy DMs, no showing up at your apartment. She's busy playing CEO Barbie now. You're free. Really free. Time to let someone normal in. Someone who won't make you cry in a car at 3 a.m."
Rowan's chest tightened just a flicker, gone before they could notice. She managed a weak smile, the kind that didn't reach her eyes.
"Yeah," she said quietly. "She's… out of the picture. I'm good."
Sara reached over and squeezed her hand.
"See? That's what we like to hear. Carlos is waiting. And honestly? After everything you've been through, you deserve boring and safe. You deserve someone who doesn't make your heart race in the bad way."
Emma raised her coffee cup in a mock toast.
"To boring, safe, and wedding bells. Eventually."
Rowan lifted her yogurt cup half-heartedly. "To that."
They laughed light, relieved, convinced.
Rowan laughed with them.
But inside, the silence from Isadora felt heavier than ever.
Not peace.
Not absence.
Just… waiting.
And every time someone said "she's out of your life," Rowan felt the invisible thread pull tighter.
She knew better.
Isadora didn't leave.
She circled.
And when she came back polished, patient, perfect it wouldn't be gentle.
It would be inevitable.
Rowan pushed the thought down, deep where it belonged.
She finished her yogurt.
She went back to rounds.
And she told herself again that the danger was gone.
Even as her heart stuttered every time her phone buzzed with nothing.
>>>>>>>>
Carlos sat alone in his apartment after the dinner, the city lights flickering through half-drawn blinds.
He hadn't turned on the overhead light just the small lamp beside the couch that cast long shadows across the room.
His suit jacket was tossed over the armrest, tie loosened but still knotted, shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows.
The faint yellow bruise on his jaw had almost disappeared, but he could still feel the phantom impact every time he clenched his teeth.
He poured himself a finger of whiskey neat, no ice and stared at the glass without drinking.
The evening replayed in fragments: Mrs. Delgado's hopeful smile, Clara's gentle matchmaking, Rowan's forced laugh when marriage came up, the way her eyes had darted away like she was afraid of the word itself.
And the lie they'd both told so easily "it was good."
He'd played along because what else could he do? Admit in front of their mothers that the "date" had ended with him getting punched by a seventeen-year-old billionaire heiress?
That Rowan had dragged him out like a child who'd wandered into traffic? That the ride home had been silent except for her clipped apologies and his own numb "it's fine"?
He wasn't angry at Rowan. Not really.
He was angry at how small he felt next to whatever ghost still haunted her.
He'd liked her from the first introduction Mrs. Delgado practically shoving them together at that charity gala six months ago.
Rowan had been quiet, sharp-witted, tired around the eyes in the way only ER doctors ever were.
She listened when he talked about cases, asked real questions, laughed at his dry jokes. No drama. No games. Just… steady.
He'd thought hoped that steady was what she needed.
What she wanted.
But every time they got close to something real, something shifted in her. A distant look. A sudden excuse.
And lately… the way she tugged her collar higher when she thought no one was watching.
The faint shadows under her eyes that weren't just from night shifts. The way her phone would buzz and she'd glance at it like it burned.
He knew the name attached to those bruises.
Isadora Ravencroft.
He'd seen the headlines. The blurry photos. The "redemption arc" everyone was praising now.
But he remembered the girl who'd stormed into that restaurant like she owned every soul inside it eyes wild, possessive, dangerous.
The girl who'd looked at Rowan like she was the only thing that mattered in the world, and everyone else was just in the way.
Carlos took a slow sip of whiskey. It burned going down.
He wasn't blind. Rowan still carried her... under the scrubs, under the polite smiles, under every "I'm fine" she fed him and their families.
And tonight, when Clara and Mrs. Delgado had pushed marriage like it was the next logical step, Rowan had looked… trapped.
Not by him. Not by the idea of commitment.
By something she couldn't name out loud.
Carlos set the glass down untouched after the first sip.
He pulled out his phone, opened the messaging thread with Rowan last text from him two days ago: Dinner was nice. Thanks for not making it weird. Let me know if you want to grab coffee sometime? No pressure.
No reply yet.
He typed, deleted, typed again.
Hey. If you ever want to talk, really talk I'm here. No judgment. No expectations.
He stared at the words for a long minute.
Then deleted them.
He locked the phone and set it face-down on the coffee table.
Carlos wasn't the type to chase someone who was still running from someone else.
But he wasn't the type to walk away from someone he cared about either.
So he'd wait.
Quietly.
Patiently.
Because if Rowan ever decided she was ready to let go of whatever hold Isadora still had on her… he'd be there.
And if she never did?
He'd still be there.
He leaned back on the couch, eyes on the ceiling.
The city hummed outside.
And somewhere across town, another player was already moving pieces he couldn't see.
Carlos exhaled slowly.
He wasn't giving up.
Not yet.
But he knew deep in the quiet part of himself that he might be fighting a war that had already been lost in a fogged-up car days ago.
>>>>>>>>
The next day, after the morning strategy meeting wrapped early, Isadora waited until the corridor cleared.
She walked straight to Everett's private office on the executive floor unannounced, no appointment, just the quiet confidence she'd been building for weeks.
The secretary glanced up, surprised, but Isadora didn't slow.
"He's expecting me," she said calmly, even though he wasn't.
The secretary hesitated, then buzzed the intercom.
Everett's voice crackled through: "Send her in."
Isadora stepped inside.
The office was dimmer than the rest of the floor heavy drapes half-drawn, dark wood paneling, a single lamp on the desk.
Everett sat behind it like a judge, cane propped against the arm of his chair, eyes already sharp on her.
She closed the door softly.
"Grandfather," she began, voice even.
"I'd like your permission to resume my outpatient therapy sessions at the hospital. The addiction specialist Dr. Blackwood. It's the remaining course. Weekly, scheduled, documented. I've kept everything clean. No incidents. The expo prep is on track. I'm showing up."