Chapter 314:

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Allena saw the flicker of distraction. It was a tiny thing, but to her, it was a five-alarm fire.

She immediately pressed her hand to her chest, her fingers covering the invisible scratch, and let out a soft, pained hiss of breath.

“Allena?” August’s attention snapped back to her, his voice instantly laced with concern. “What’s wrong?”

Her eyes were wide and suddenly glistening with unshed tears. Her voice was a fragile whisper. “It’s nothing, August. I think… I think I was just so tense at the police station. It’s only now that I can feel how much it… hurts.”

She held up her hand, presenting the microscopic red line on her finger as if it were a gaping wound.

August looked at the “injury.” In his mind, he saw it juxtaposed with the ugly, purple-and-blue bruise he had seen on Elisa’s wrist. The two images flickered, and his judgment, already clouded by bias, made its choice.

Elisa’s injury was a consequence of her own reckless behavior, a mark of her association with men like Preston Vance.

Allena’s injury, however, was a wound she had sustained by his side, a testament to her innocence and loyalty.

A wave of guilt and protective tenderness washed over his face. He took her hand, his touch infinitely gentle. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice thick with self-reproach. “This is my fault. You shouldn’t have had to go through any of this.”

𝖳𝘩𝗲 𝖻𝘦𝘀𝘁 r𝖾𝘃𝗂𝘦𝘸𝘀 on 𝘨a𝘭no𝘃e𝗹𝗌.𝖼𝗈𝗺

He leaned forward, his voice sharp and commanding to the driver. “Change of plans. Go to the private wing at Mount Sinai.”

The driver hesitated for a fraction of a second. “Sir, we’re right here. If Mrs. Wilder needs anything—”

“She doesn’t,” August cut him off, his voice laced with venom. “She has her ‘friends’ to take care of her.”

The implication was ugly and clear. The driver said nothing more, expertly executing a three-point turn and heading back toward Manhattan.

Allena leaned against August’s chest, a triumphant glint in her eyes. “Are you sure? It’s just a tiny scratch. We don’t need to bother the doctors.”

August cupped her face, his thumb stroking her cheek. “Anything that concerns you,” he said, his tone absolute, “is not a small thing.”

Inside the safe house, Elisa stood at the kitchen sink, letting ice-cold water run over her swollen wrist. The stinging subsided to a dull, throbbing ache. The bruise was already darkening, an ugly map of the night’s violence.

She found a tube of arnica cream in the first-aid kit and awkwardly applied it with her left hand.

Her phone rang. It was Jewel.

“Elisa? Are you okay? I just heard what happened at the party! And the police?”

“I’m fine, Jewel,” Elisa said, her voice flat. “I’m home now.”

“Where’s August? Did he tear you to shreds?”

Elisa looked out the kitchen window, watching the red taillights of the Rolls-Royce disappear down the long driveway. A bitter, humorless smile touched her lips.

“He’s busy,” she said. “He’s taking a patient with a very serious injury to the hospital.”

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