They entered the penthouse in silence. Easton didn't let her go to her room. He steered her by the elbow to the living room sofa and pushed her gently down.

He walked to a cabinet and pulled out a sleek, metal medical kit. It wasn't a standard first-aid box; it looked military grade.

Frederica watched him snap on a pair of latex gloves. "You know how to do this?"

Easton didn't answer. He reached up and turned on the floor lamp, angling the bright light onto her face.

He peeled back the tape. Frederica hissed as it pulled at her skin.

Easton paused. "Sorry," he murmured.

He cleaned the wound with iodine. His movements were incredibly precise, almost gentle. It was a jarring contrast to the man who had dragged her out of the gallery hours ago. His fingers were steady. He checked the depth of the cut.

"It does not need stitches," he said, his voice clinical. "But it will scar."

Frederica let out a shaky breath. "I am not a model. It does not matter."

Easton peeled off the gloves and tossed them in the bin. "Marcus did this?"

"Meredith," Frederica corrected. "Marcus just watched."

Easton's jaw clenched. A muscle ticked in his cheek. His eyes went flat, terrifyingly empty.

He stood up and walked to the bar cart. He poured a glass of whiskey, his back to her.

"I will handle it."

Frederica sat up straighter. "What are you going to do? Do not touch the stock price, Easton. My trust is tied to it."

Easton turned, sipping the amber liquid. "You are worried about money? I thought you wanted a divorce."

"Because I want a divorce, I need the money," she snapped. "I am moving to a hotel tonight."

Easton set the glass down. The sound of crystal hitting glass was sharp.

"No."

Frederica stood up. "You cannot keep me here."

Easton crossed the room. He loomed over her, using his height to box her in.

"As long as you are my wife, I have an obligation to keep you alive. You are bleeding from the head. You are not going anywhere."

He pointed toward the guest room. "Go to sleep. I have a briefing at six. Do not wake me."

He turned and walked into his study, closing the door with a definitive click.

Frederica stood there, looking at the expensive medical kit, confused by the contradiction of his gentleness and his commands.

Inside the study, Easton didn't work.

He picked up his encrypted phone.

"Yates," he said. "Freeze all Mccullough shipments at the Jersey Port."

There was a pause on the other end. "Sir? That will cost us millions in delays. The supply chain..."

"Do it," Easton ordered. "Keep them frozen until Marcus Mccullough calls me personally to beg."

He hung up. He looked at the monitor on his desk, showing the living room feed. He watched Frederica walk slowly into the guest room.

"No one touches you," he whispered to the screen. "Except me."

Breakfast was a silent affair. Frederica picked at her toast, the gauze on her forehead throbbing. Easton sat across from her, reading news on his tablet. He looked relaxed. Too relaxed.

The TV in the corner was on a financial news channel.

Breaking News: Mccullough Logistics faces massive supply chain halt. Stock opens down 5%.

Frederica's head snapped up. She looked at Easton. He didn't look up from his tablet, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward.

Before she could accuse him, her phone rang.

It was the hospital.

"Miss Mccullough? It is the ER at New York Presbyterian. Your mother..."

Frederica dropped her fork. It clattered loudly onto the china. "What happened?"

"She attempted to jump from the second-floor balcony of the estate. She is in critical condition."

The room spun. Frederica stood up so fast her chair tipped over.

Easton was there instantly. He caught her arm. "Freddie?" As he steadied her, he was already speaking into his watch. "Get the car. New York Presbyterian. And get Hoffman on a jet. Now."

She shoved him away. "I have to go."

"I will drive," he said, grabbing the keys.

The ride was a blur. When they arrived at the ICU waiting area, Marcus and her sister, Dominque, were already there. They weren't crying. They looked annoyed.

Frederica ran up to them. "Is she alive?"

Dominque rolled her eyes, checking her nails. "She's in surgery. I've already spoken with the estate lawyer. If she remains incapacitated for more than seventy-two hours, Father's guardianship becomes permanent. The surgery's outcome is, from a legal perspective, irrelevant."

Frederica raised her hand to slap her, but Easton caught her wrist, pulling it down.

The doctor came out. He looked grave. "Multiple fractures. Cranial swelling. It is bad."

Marcus stepped forward. "Doctor, if she survives... quality of life?"

The doctor hesitated. "Likely vegetative. Long-term care will be extensive."

Marcus nodded, as if closing a deal. "Then we should consider palliative care."

Frederica gasped. "She is alive! You cannot just let her die!"

"She is a vegetable," Marcus said coldly. "It is bad for the stock."

"You murderer!" Frederica screamed. "I have her medical proxy!"

Dominque laughed. "That expired two years ago, sis. Daddy is the guardian."

Frederica looked at Easton. Help me, her eyes pleaded. Do something.

Easton stood there, his face unreadable. He looked at Marcus, then at the doctor. He didn't speak.

Marcus took his silence for agreement. "See? Even Easton knows it is a waste of resources."

Frederica felt her heart shatter. She turned and ran toward the ICU doors, trying to break through. A nurse grabbed her, holding her back.