Adrian’s POV
The chaos on the rooftop should be over. Lisette is finally subdued, Cleo's phone still recording everything, and for one brief moment I allow myself to believe the worst has passed.
Then Sophie sways.
I catch her before she hits the concrete, my arms wrapping around her collapsing body on pure instinct.
Her weight falls into me—too light, too limp, too wrong. The rooftop spins around us, but I don't see any of it. I see only her face, pale as death, slack and unresponsive.
"Sophie!" Her name tears from my throat. I pat her cheek, gentle at first, then harder. "Sophie, open your eyes. Look at me."
Nothing. Not a flutter of her lashes, not a twitch of her lips. Her head lolls against my shoulder like a broken doll, and something inside my chest cracks wide open.
I've spent my entire adult life mastering control. Perfecting the art of composure. Building walls so high and so thick that nothing—no threat, no crisis, no heartbreak—could breach them.
But kneeling on this rooftop with Sophie unconscious in my arms, I feel those walls crumbling like paper in a storm.
Sirens wail in the distance, growing louder with each passing second. Blue and red lights paint the night sky as police swarm the rooftop from every access point.
The chaos erupts around me—shouting, footsteps, the crackle of radios, but it registers only as background noise. White static against the roar of blood in my ears.
"Everyone on the ground! Hands where we can see them!"
They can't distinguish victim from perpetrator. In their eyes, we're all suspects, everyone standing on this rooftop when they arrived. Cuffs first, questions later—that's how these things work.
Cleo's voice cuts through the mayhem, sharp and furious. "Get your hands off me! Do you have any idea who my father's lawyer is? I will sue every single one of you into oblivion!"
She's thrashing against the officer attempting to restrain her, all five feet of righteous fury wrapped in a designer dress.
Ayden steps between her and the police, his voice carrying the quiet authority of someone who's dealt with worse situations than this.
"Touch her again and you'll be explaining yourself to internal affairs by morning. Back off!" He positions his body as a shield, giving Cleo room to breathe while keeping his hands visible enough to avoid escalation.
And Cassian… Cassian is fighting. Really fighting. Two officers struggle to hold him as he strains toward Sophie, his face contorted with desperation.
"Sophie! Let me go—she needs help! Can't you see she's not breathing properly?!" His voice breaks on her name, and for one terrible moment, I feel something close to kinship with the man I've spent months despising.
We both love her, yet we're both helpless.
Lisette is the only one who goes quietly. They drag her toward the roof access door, and she doesn't resist. Doesn't scream or protest or demand a lawyer.
She simply walks, her movements eerily graceful, a ghost of a smile playing at the corners of her lips. As she passes, her eyes find mine. The satisfaction in them makes my stomach turn.
She wanted this, all of this. The chaos, the destruction, Sophie unconscious in my arms—this was her endgame.
"Sir, you need to step away from the woman and put your hands—"
"No." The word comes out cold, absolute. I don't look at the officer addressing me. I keep my eyes on Sophie's face, on the shallow rise and fall of her chest that's the only proof she's still alive.
"She's pregnant. She's experiencing a medical emergency. If you waste another second trying to cuff me instead of calling for an ambulance, I will personally ensure your career ends before sunrise."
The officer hesitates. I hear it in his breathing, in the shuffle of his feet.
I finally raise my head. Let him see my face—the face of a man who has negotiated with far more dangerous people than a beat cop following protocol.
"My name is Adrian Lewis. I'm the father of her child. Check my identification if you need to, but do it while someone is radioing for medical transport. She collapsed without warning. Her blood pressure, the stress, the pregnancy…"
My voice wavers. I hate it, so I force it steady. "She needs a hospital. Now."
Something in my tone—the control beneath the desperation, the quiet promise of consequences—makes him pause. He exchanges a glance with his partner, a brief conversation I don't bother listening to.
"Ambulance is already en route," he finally says. "You can accompany her, but we'll need a statement later."
"Fine." I don't care about statements. I don't care about anything except the woman growing cold in my arms.
The others are hauled off—Cleo still threatening lawsuits, Ayden trying to calm her, Cassian's protests fading as they drag him toward a patrol car. I make a mental note to have them released within the hour.
I know people, I'll make calls. But right now, Sophie is the only thing that matters.
The ambulance arrives in a blur of flashing lights and urgent voices. Paramedics take over, lifting her onto a stretcher with practiced efficiency. I refuse to let go of her hand.
They try to separate us, and I simply don't allow it. I walk beside the gurney, my fingers intertwined with hers, as if my grip alone can anchor her to this world.
At the hospital, the fluorescent lights are too bright. The smell of antiseptic burns my nostrils. They wheel Sophie through the emergency entrance, and I stay with her every step, every turn, until we reach a set of double doors marked "Authorized Personnel Only."
A nurse blocks my path. "Sir, you need to wait here. The doctors will…"
"I'm not leaving her."
"Sir." Her voice is kind but firm. "You can't help her in there. Let us do our jobs. We'll update you as soon as we know anything."
The doors swing open. I watch Sophie's stretcher disappear into the sterile white hallway, her dark hair spilling over the pillow, her face still terrifyingly pale.
‘Wait here.’
The words hit like a verdict. A sentence I have no choice but to serve.
I can't sit. The plastic chairs lining the corridor mock me with their promise of rest I can't accept. I can't stand still either. The energy coursing through my veins demands movement, action, something—and there's nothing I can do.
So I pace. Back and forth across the same stretch of linoleum, counting tiles, counting seconds, counting every breath I take while wondering if Sophie is still taking hers.
The minutes stretch into agony. Each one feels like an hour, each hour feels like a lifetime.
Finally, I stop.
My hand moves to my pocket, pulls out my phone. The screen illuminates, and I stare at it for a long moment, thumb hovering over a contact I haven't called in years. A name from another life, a debt never fully repaid.
I told myself I was done with that world. That I'd buried it so deep it could never surface again.
But Sophie is behind those doors, my child is behind those doors, and I will burn down every wall I've built if that's what it takes to protect them.
I press call.
Three rings, then a voice I haven't heard in far too long, rough with sleep and suspicion.
"Adrian. It's been a while."
I close my eyes. "I need a favor."