Julian saw the screen. His face turned a mottled purple. He slapped the phone out of Elenor's hand.

It hit the pavement with a crunch.

"You ungrateful mute bitch!" Julian roared. The mic on the camera picked it up. The crowd went silent.

He grabbed her by the front of the scrubs. He shook her. "I'm trying to help you!"

Elenor was thrown backward. Her spine collided with a lamppost. Pain shot through her ribs. She slid down, gasping for air.

Ursula was shouting now. "She's having an episode! Grab her! We need to get her home!"

Julian lunged for her. His fingers dug into her arm, bruising the skin. He was dragging her toward the SUV.

"No," Elenor mouthed. No sound came out.

She looked past the chaos, past the flashing lights, and her gaze locked with Hilliard's in the distant car. There was no plea in her eyes, no request for salvation. Instead, there was a cold, clear message: This circus is a liability. Your investment is being publicly degraded. It was a strategic look, not a desperate one.

He wouldn't help a victim. But he would protect an asset.

Julian opened the car door. He was shoving her inside.

Elenor felt a surge of panic, not for her safety, but for the plan. This was not part of the plan. She closed her eyes, preparing to fight, to bite, to do anything to stop him.

The door of the Rolls Royce opened.

Hilliard stepped out. He didn't rush. He buttoned his jacket. He took a drag of the cigar and exhaled a plume of blue smoke.

The crowd parted for him like the Red Sea. The aura of money was a physical barrier.

He walked up to Julian. He looked at Julian's hand, which was still gripping Elenor's arm.

"Count to three," Hilliard said. His voice was conversational. "If your hand is still on my wife at three, you lose the hand."

Julian blinked. "What?"

"One."

Hilliard took a step closer.

Julian released her as if she were made of fire. He stumbled back, nearly tripping over his own feet.

Elenor slumped forward, her legs giving out.

She didn't hit the ground.

Hilliard's arm swept around her waist. He caught her, pulling her flush against his chest. The wool of his suit was rough against her cheek. He smelled of tobacco and cold winter air.

He looked down at her. His eyes were hard, but his grip was secure.

"Creating a scene, Mrs. Blackburn?" he murmured, his voice low and mocking near her ear. "This will be expensive."

The cameras were still rolling, but Hilliard stared them down. One by one, the lenses lowered.

"My lawyers will be in touch within the hour," Hilliard said to Julian. "Restraining order. And extortion charges."

"I didn't extort anyone!" Julian stammered, sweat beading on his forehead.

"My security team has directional microphones," Hilliard lied smoothly. "We heard everything."

Julian looked like he was going to vomit. Ursula had already vanished into the crowd, abandoning her ally the moment the tide turned.

Hilliard turned Elenor around and marched her to the car. He didn't ask if she was okay. He opened the door and practically shoved her onto the leather seat.

He got in beside her. "Go," he told the driver.

The partition slid up with a soft whir. They were alone.

Elenor huddled in the corner, hugging her knees. Her throat felt like it was on fire.

Hilliard opened a bottle of water from the console and handed it to her.

She took it, her hands shaking. She drank greedily, the cool water soothing the raw tissue of her throat.

"Explain," Hilliard demanded. He didn't look at her. He was looking at his phone. "The board is already calling. Our stock dipped half a point during that little spectacle."

Elenor held up her broken phone. It was dead.

She pointed to the leather seat. She traced letters with her finger. S-I-L-A-S.

Hilliard frowned. "The scientist? The one whose lab burned down?"

Elenor nodded vigorously. She traced again. M-E-N-T-O-R.

"You ran through traffic in stolen scrubs for a mentor?" Hilliard scoffed. "Your sentimentality is a liability. This marriage is a business arrangement meant to stabilize my position during a critical acquisition. Your public image is now an extension of mine."

Elenor glared at him. She mouthed the word: Family.

Hilliard paused. He looked at her profile, the stubborn set of her jaw. "Family," he repeated, testing the word. It sounded foreign in his mouth.

He reached into his briefcase and pulled out the tablet. The one he had taken from her in the hospital.

"I had my tech team look at the cache," he said.

Elenor's heart stopped.

"You were searching for the fire report on the Vane Laboratory," Hilliard said. "Why?"

Elenor's mind raced. She couldn't tell him about the algorithm.

She pointed to her head. Then she made a motion of an explosion. Fire. Then she pointed to her head again. Memory.

She was gambling that he would buy the amnesia story. That she was looking for clues to her own past.

Hilliard studied her. "You think the fire is connected to your accident?"

Elenor nodded. It wasn't a lie.

"Fine," Hilliard said. He put the tablet away. "But you're done running. You're coming with me."

Elenor looked out the window. They weren't going back to the hospital. They were heading north. toward the Becker estate.

"Where?" she mouthed.

"Home," Hilliard said grimly. "Or what's left of it."