Martha Anderson opened her eyes three hours later.

She was in a private suite with a view of the East River.

Beatrix was holding her hand.

"Mom," she sobbed. "You're okay."

Martha smiled weakly. She pulled the oxygen mask down.

"Bea," she rasped. "Where is he?"

"Who?"

"Carlyle. I heard his voice."

Beatrix hesitated. "He's... he's outside."

"Bring him in."

"Mom, you need to rest."

"Bring him in," Martha insisted, her grip surprisingly strong. "Please."

Beatrix went to the door.

Carlyle was sitting on a plastic chair in the hallway, reading emails on his phone.

He looked up.

"She wants to see you."

Carlyle stood up. He buttoned his coat.

He walked into the room.

His demeanor changed instantly.

The arrogance vanished. The coldness melted.

He walked to the bed, his gaze fixed on Martha. Beatrix saw his hand clench into a fist at his side, just for a second, before he forced it to relax. He took Martha's hand gently, his touch careful, deliberate.

"Hello, Martha," he said softly.

"Carlyle," she whispered. "You came."

"Of course I came."

Martha looked at him, her eyes cloudy but serious.

"I know I don't have long."

"Don't say that," Beatrix interrupted.

"Hush, Bea." Martha looked at Carlyle. "I need to know... I need to know she'll be safe."

She squeezed his hand.

"The people who hated her father... they are still out there. Promise me, Carlyle."

Beatrix's eyes widened.

She shook her head frantically at Carlyle.

Don't do it. Don't lie to her.

Carlyle saw Beatrix's panic.

He looked back at the dying woman.

"Promise me you will take care of her," Martha begged. "Promise me you won't let her fall."

Carlyle took a deep breath.

He gripped Martha's hand with both of his.

"I promise," he said, his voice steady and solemn. "As long as I breathe, no one will hurt her. She will always be under my protection."

Martha let out a long sigh of relief.

"Good," she whispered. "My good boy."

She closed her eyes and drifted back into sleep.

Beatrix felt like she couldn't breathe.

She followed Carlyle out into the hallway.

"How could you?" she hissed. "We are getting divorced next week! Why would you give her false hope?"

Carlyle leaned against the wall.

He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket.

He put one in his mouth but didn't light it.

"Would you rather she died worrying?" he asked.

"It's a lie!"

"Is it?" Carlyle looked at her. "I said I'd protect you. I didn't say I'd stay married to you."

"You're playing word games with a dying woman!"

"I'm giving her peace," he said. "Something you seem incapable of doing."

His phone rang.

Beatrix saw the screen. Gene.

Carlyle looked at it.

He silenced it.

Then he powered the phone off.

Beatrix stared at him.

"She's calling you."

"I know."

"Why did you turn it off?"

Carlyle sat back down on the uncomfortable plastic chair.

"Because I promised your mother I'd stay," he said. "And I don't break promises."

"You're staying?" Beatrix asked, stunned. "Here? All night?"

"Go to sleep, Beatrix," he said, closing his eyes. "I'm not going anywhere."

Beatrix watched him.

He looked exhausted.

He looked... noble.

It was confusing. It was infuriating.

She went back into the room and curled up on the visitor cot.

But she kept the door cracked open, watching the sliver of his shadow on the hallway floor.

Sunlight streamed through the hospital blinds, harsh and unforgiving.

Beatrix woke with a stiff neck.

She walked out to the hallway.

Carlyle was asleep.

His head was tipped back against the wall, his mouth slightly open.

He looked younger like this. Less dangerous.

Beatrix felt a pang in her chest.

She took off her cardigan and walked over to him.

She was about to drape it over his legs when his eyes snapped open.

He flinched, sitting up straight instantly.

"I'm awake," he said, his voice rough with sleep.

"I brought you coffee," she said, holding out a paper cup she had just bought.

He took it. Their fingers didn't touch this time.

"Thanks."

"Silas is coming," she said.

Carlyle froze, the cup halfway to his mouth.

"Who?"

"Your lawyer. I called him. Since you're here, and I'm here... we can sign the final papers."

Carlyle's expression darkened.

"Here? In a hospital corridor?"

"Why not? It's neutral ground."

"It's tacky," he spat.

"It's necessary. You promised my mother you'd protect me. The best protection you can give me is my freedom."

Carlyle stood up. He towered over her.

"I have a board meeting," he said.

"You said that yesterday."

"It was rescheduled. To now."

"You're lying," she said. "You just don't want to sign."

"Why wouldn't I want to sign?" he laughed, but it sounded hollow. "I have a wedding to plan, remember?"

"Then sign!"

The elevator dinged.

Silas Vance stepped out, looking out of place in his Italian suit, holding a leather briefcase.

"Good morning," Silas said, looking nervously between them. "Beatrix, you called?"

"Yes," Beatrix said. "Give me the papers."

Silas opened his briefcase.

Carlyle moved faster than she thought possible.

He snatched the folder from Silas's hands.

He opened it, scanned the first page for two seconds, and then slammed it shut.

"We can't sign this," Carlyle said, his voice firm and final.

"What?" Beatrix demanded. "Why not? Everything is there."

"No, it's not," Carlyle said, turning to his lawyer. "Silas, did you attach the certified copy of the original marriage license from the state archives?"

"Sir," Silas stammered, caught off guard. "The standard court filing only requires the license number and date, which we have. The original is..."

"The original is in the vault at the estate," Carlyle cut him off smoothly. "And according to the terms of the prenuptial agreement, Article 14, Section B, any dissolution requires the physical presentation of the original certificate, notarized by both parties. A security measure my grandfather insisted upon."

Silas paled. "My apologies, sir. I overlooked that specific clause. It's an archaic requirement..."

"Redraft it," Carlyle ordered, shoving the folder back at him. "And schedule a time for us to visit the vault. Together."

"But that will take days!" Beatrix cried. "You know the vault requires 48 hours' notice and your grandfather's presence!"

"Then wait days," Carlyle said.

He checked his watch-a Patek Philippe that cost more than her college tuition.

"I have to go. My driver is downstairs."

"You are unbelievable," Beatrix said, her voice shaking with rage. "You are stalling."

Carlyle buttoned his coat.

He leaned in close to her ear.

"I'm a businessman, Beatrix. I don't sign incomplete contracts."

"I'm an incomplete contract?"

"Right now?" He looked at her, his gaze dropping to her mouth for a fraction of a second. "You're a liability."

He turned and walked toward the elevators.

"Call my secretary!" he shouted over his shoulder.

The elevator doors closed, swallowing him.

Beatrix stood there, fists clenched.

He wasn't letting her go.

She realized it with a terrifying clarity.

He was going to drag this out until she broke.

She looked at Silas.

"Give me the file," she demanded.

"I can't," Silas said, clutching it to his chest. "Client privilege."

Beatrix laughed. It was a manic sound.

"Fine," she said. "Keep your file."

She turned back to her mother's room.

If he wanted a war, she would give him one.

She wasn't the scared little girl he married anymore.

She was a gray rock.

And a gray rock could wait. It could endure. It would still be there long after the glass house shattered.