The pace of their new reality, all-consuming work followed by intense, private hours in Rhys's penthouse, was brutal but exhilarating. Melanie thrived on the high stakes, and Rhys thrived on having her constantly within his reach. They had established a dangerous rhythm, fueled by adrenaline and desire.
Then, the private line on Melanie's work phone, the one only Rhys and her mother knew, rang just before lunch.
Melanie answered it, her face going instantly pale. She listened for only a few moments, her hand shaking slightly before she hung up. She stood from her desk in the bunker, leaving the data screens glowing, and walked out into the main office.
"Rhys," she said, her voice strained, cutting through his instructions to his assistant. "I need to leave. Now."
Rhys stopped mid-sentence. He had never seen her lose control like this. "What is it? Is it Vasko? Are we under—?"
"My mother," Melanie whispered, her eyes dark with genuine panic. "She fell. They've admitted her to St. Jude's, and her vitals are unstable. I need to get home. I need to go now."
Rhys dismissed his assistant with a wave of his hand. He walked to Melanie instantly, his powerful composure momentarily shattering. He saw the shift from ruthless analyst to vulnerable daughter, and it hit him with a physical force. He realized, with crushing clarity though weird to him, that her pain was his pain.
"Melanie, look at me," he commanded softly, holding her arms. "I'm taking you. Get your bag. We'll use the private helicopter ; it will be faster than any drive."
Within twenty minutes, Rhys had coordinated their travel, briefed his security detail, and had them airborne. They didn't speak much during the flight. Melanie was focused on her phone, awaiting updates. Rhys just watched her, the fear in her eyes tearing through the walls he had carefully maintained around his emotions.
After settling her in a luxury hotel near the hospital and ensuring she had everything she needed—security, money, a continuous line of contact with the chief doctor—Rhys returned to the city alone.
Back in his penthouse, Rhys felt the silence like a physical void. Her absence was a noise he couldn't drown out. The office, usually his sanctuary, felt sterile and meaningless.
He walked into his office suite. The door to the bunker was closed. Her chair was empty. The screens were dark.
This is what control feels like when you realize you no longer have it.
He sat at his desk, but the paperwork was meaningless. He wasn't worried about the board or the market volatility. He was worried about Melanie's mother, because her small family was the only thing that could take Melanie away from him completely.
Rhys picked up his phone and called the Chief of Staff at St. Jude's, bypassing all normal channels. He didn't ask for a favor; he issued a command, ensuring Melanie's mother received the absolute best care the hospital could provide, funded entirely by Kallen Capital.
He looked at the empty seat where she had sat during the board meeting, remembering the fire in her eyes as she demolished Arthur Quinn.
He missed the analyst. He missed the fighter. He missed Melanie.
He realized, with a sudden, painful clarity that cut through his carefully constructed world of power and possession: this wasn't an arrangement, a conquest, or a contract. He was irrevocably in love with her.
The Lion had finally lost his armor, and the only person who knew it was miles away, fighting a battle he couldn't win for her.