The morning sun had barely begun to burn through the coastal fog when Styler's phone shrieked on the nightstand, shattering the first peaceful sleep she had known in years. Beside her, Elena stirred, her eyes fluttering open with a sleepy, protective concern.
Styler's heart plummeted as she saw the caller ID: George Virjon.
"Styler... it's your mother," her father's voice came through the speaker, uncharacteristically cracked and breathless. "She's collapsed. We're at the manor... the paramedics are here, but she's asking for you. Please, Styler. I know we fought, but she's dying."
The doctor in Styler overrode the skeptic. Her blood went cold. "I'm coming. I'm coming right now."
Styler drove like a woman possessed, the tires of her car screaming against the pavement as she tore away from the Armitage estate. She didn't even have time to explain fully to Elena, only a frantic, "My mother... hospital... I have to go."
