For one terrible second, the private jet seemed to stop moving.
I couldn’t hear the engines.
Couldn’t hear the storm.
Couldn’t hear anything except my own heartbeat.
“What do you mean, they were after Noah?”
Vincent remained standing.
“Our men intercepted someone on the service floor.”
“Someone?”
“A man using a maintenance credential.”
“What did he do?”
“He tried reaching Noah’s wing.”
My stomach twisted.
“Was he armed?”
Vincent didn’t answer fast enough.
“Was he armed?”
“Yes.”
I grabbed my purse.
“We’re landing.”
“We are,” Damian said.
“Where?”
“Philadelphia.”
“But the flight plan—”
“Changed.”
“When?”
“About thirty seconds ago.”
Damian picked up his phone.
“Pilot.”
He waited.
“Philadelphia. Fastest legal route.”
He ended the call.
There was something terrifying about how calmly he handled emergencies.
I was shaking hard enough that I couldn’t fasten my purse.
Damian took it from me, closed it, and placed it beside my seat.
“Look at me.”
“I need to call Noah.”
“Emily.”
“I need to hear his voice.”
“Can he answer?”
The question hurt because it was practical.
“No. Not usually.”
“Then call the nurses’ station.”
Vincent shook his head.
“Not yet.”
I rounded on him.
“You don’t get to tell me I can’t call my brother’s nurses.”
“We’re trying to determine whether anyone inside the facility helped the intruder.”
That stopped me.
“Inside?”
“He had a working credential.”
I sank into the seat.
Noah had been at St. Catherine Neurological Rehabilitation Center for eleven months.
I knew the nurses.
The therapists.
The receptionist who kept cinnamon gum in the top drawer.
The night orderly who played old Phillies games for Noah when he couldn’t sleep.
The idea that someone there might have helped a stranger reach him made the world feel suddenly unstable.
“Why?”
My voice was barely audible.
“Why Noah?”
Damian sat across from me now.
“That’s what we’re going to find out.”
“You said this was connected to your port acquisition.”
“I said it might be.”
“You know more than you’re telling me.”
His silence answered.
I laughed once, bitterly.
“Of course you do.”
“Emily—”
“For two years I’ve organized your life. I know which investors you refuse to sit beside. I know your mother’s birthday even though you haven’t spoken to her in six years. I know which hotel rooms you won’t use because the windows face adjacent buildings. I know you hate lilies because they remind you of funerals.”
Vincent glanced at Damian.
Apparently that last detail had not been widely distributed.
“But when my brother is in danger,” I continued, “suddenly I’m too fragile for information?”
“That isn’t what this is.”
“Then tell me.”
Damian looked toward the dark window.
When he turned back, something had changed.
“Three weeks ago, you processed documents relating to Great Lakes Maritime.”
I remembered immediately.
“A port logistics company.”
“A failing port logistics company.”
“You’re acquiring it.”
“I was.”
“Was?”
“Someone else wants it.”
“Who?”
“Adrian Voss.”
The name meant something.
I searched my memory.
“Voss Infrastructure.”
Vincent nodded.
Damian continued.
“Voss and I have been competing over shipping access for years. Usually it stays business.”
“Usually?”
“This time, someone crossed a line.”
I looked at Vincent.
“The records request.”
“Yes.”
Damian’s expression hardened.
“Someone apparently decided my executive assistant was a vulnerability.”
“I’m not.”
“No,” he said quietly. “But your brother is vulnerable to you.”
I hated how accurate that was.
“Why would taking Noah help them?”
“To pressure you.”
“For what?”
“That’s what bothers me.”
He leaned forward.
“You don’t have authority to stop the acquisition. You don’t have access to my private accounts. You don’t know enough about the negotiations to be useful.”
“Comforting.”
“You know what I mean.”
Unfortunately, I did.
Vincent’s phone buzzed.
He read the message.
“The intruder isn’t talking.”
Damian’s eyes sharpened.
“Identity?”
“False.”
“Prints?”
“Running.”
I wrapped my arms around myself.
“What happens to him?”
Vincent looked at Damian before answering.
“He’ll be handed to the authorities.”
Something in his tone suggested there might be a conversation first.
I decided I didn’t want details.
The flight to Philadelphia took less than an hour.
Nobody worked.
Nobody slept.
Damian made calls in clipped sentences while Vincent coordinated with people on the ground.
I stared at the photograph of Noah.
When the plane landed, three black SUVs were waiting.
I headed for the first one.
Damian caught up.
“You’re riding with me.”
“I can ride alone.”
“That wasn’t a request.”
I stopped.
“Do you ever ask?”
“When it matters.”
“This matters to me.”
“It matters to me too.”
I stared at him.
“Why?”
For once, Damian had no immediate answer.
Vincent opened the SUV door.
“We should move.”
The drive to St. Catherine’s took twenty-three minutes.
Rain had followed us east.
Philadelphia streets glistened beneath streetlights, and every red light felt personal.
When we reached the center, security surrounded the side entrance.
I ran inside.
“Emily.”
I ignored Damian.
The elevator seemed impossibly slow, so I took the stairs.
Three flights.
By the time I reached Noah’s floor, my lungs burned.
A nurse stepped from his room.
“Ms. Carter.”
“Is he okay?”
“He’s fine.”
I pushed past her.
Noah lay exactly where he had in the photograph.
For one second, I could only stare.
Then I crossed the room and wrapped my hand around his.
“Noah.”
His eyelids fluttered.
“It’s me.”
Nothing.
I swallowed.
“I’m here.”
His fingers moved.
Barely.
But they moved around mine.
A sob escaped before I could stop it.
“I know. I know.”
I lowered my forehead to his hand.
“You’re okay.”
Behind me, the doorway became quiet.
I turned.
Damian stood there alone.
Not Vincent.
Not security.
Just Damian.
He had removed his coat.
Rain darkened the shoulders of his black suit.
I wiped my face.
“You don’t have to stay.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Noah doesn’t know you.”
Damian looked toward the bed.
“Maybe I should introduce myself.”
I almost laughed.
“My brother has a traumatic brain injury.”
“I understand.”
“No. I mean he might not respond.”
“I understand that too.”
Damian approached slowly.
I watched him carefully.
He stopped beside the bed.
“Noah.”
My brother’s eyes remained closed.
“I’m Damian.”
I expected some intimidating corporate introduction.
Instead, Damian said, “Your sister is very difficult.”
My mouth fell open.
Noah’s fingers moved.
Damian looked at me.
“Was that agreement?”
“No.”
“It looked like agreement.”
“He has muscle spasms.”
“Convenient explanation.”
I stared at him.
And for the first time since the call, I laughed.
It lasted maybe two seconds.
But it felt like oxygen.
Then Noah opened his eyes.
His gaze moved slowly.
First to me.
Then Damian.
His brow furrowed.
“Hey,” I whispered.
His lips moved.
No sound came.
I leaned closer.
“It’s okay.”
He tried again.
A breath.
Then one broken syllable.
“Em.”
My heart cracked open.
“Yes.”
His eyes returned to Damian.
Damian stood perfectly still.
Noah’s left hand twitched.
I followed his gaze.
“He wants to know who you are.”
Damian’s eyebrow lifted.
“You got that from a twitch?”
“I’m his sister.”
Damian leaned slightly closer.
“I’m your sister’s boss.”
Noah stared.
Then, very slowly, his eyes narrowed.
I covered my mouth.
“Oh, wow.”
“What?”
“He doesn’t like you.”
Damian looked almost offended.
“He met me twenty seconds ago.”
“He’s protective.”
“So am I.”
The words came quietly.
Our eyes met.
Something passed between us that neither acknowledged.
Vincent appeared at the doorway.
“Boss.”
Damian stepped into the hall.
I stayed with Noah for another ten minutes before the nurse gave him medication.
When he drifted back to sleep, I joined them.
Vincent held a tablet.
“We identified the intruder.”
“Who?” I asked.
“Marcus Bell. Private security contractor. Former military police. Currently employed through a subsidiary of Voss Infrastructure.”
My stomach dropped.
“So Damian was right.”
“Partly.”
Damian’s expression told me there was another problem.
“What?”
Vincent turned the tablet toward me.
“There’s something else.”
A photograph showed Marcus Bell entering the rehabilitation center.
Beside him stood a woman.
I recognized her immediately.
My entire body went cold.
“No.”
Damian watched my face.
“You know her?”
I couldn’t speak.
The woman in the photograph had sat across from me four months earlier and promised Noah would receive every treatment he needed.
She had personally helped me appeal an insurance denial.
She knew my schedule.
She knew Noah’s condition.
She knew when I visited.
“Emily?”
I looked at Damian.
“That’s Rebecca Sloan.”
“Who is she?”
My voice shook.
“Noah’s case manager.”
Vincent’s jaw tightened.
Damian became very still.
And suddenly the danger wasn’t outside St. Catherine’s anymore.
It had been standing beside Noah’s bed for months.