Page 107 of Anchor
Ian pressed the back of his hand to her cheek. “She’s ice-cold,” he said tightly. “Help’s on the way, Firefly.”
Claire tried to lift her head, but her limbs wouldn’t respond. Her breath felt thin. And then everything dimmed—not like sleep, but like silence.
Somewhere far away, she heard Ian call her name again. And then the world was gone.
WASHINGTON, DC – OUTSIDE THE OFFICE OF HEATHER BOWMAN – 1200 HOURS
The cameras were fixed, the seal gleamed on the podium, and Heather’s reflection in the teleprompter glass told her everything was flawless: hair smoothed, makeup perfect, no tremor in her voice.
Not a hostage. Not a woman undone. Just a senator choosing her exit on her own terms.
She spoke clearly, announcing her immediate resignation from the United States Senate and the suspension of all public activities, her words measured, deliberate, almost gracious.
Smile here, soften the eyes, give them resolve but not regret. No weakness. No trace of the demand behind this. They can never know Ian forced me. They must see only control. A clean break. A woman closing one chapter to begin another.
The applause that followed was muted and polite. She nodded once, then stepped back from the microphones.
Perfect. They’ll believe it was mine all along.
EXECUTIVE SUITE – OFFICE OF IAN CHASE – SAME TIME
Ian watched the broadcast alone, the screen’s glow sharpening the lines around his eyes. Heather Bowman was perfect, every syllable cut with precision. She did exactly what he demanded.She resigned, clean, unflinching, no trace of coercion. To the public, it was flawless. To him, it was… incomplete.
Reid lay in the haze between life and death three floors below, comatose, machines keeping him tethered to survival after the surgery. Claire had collapsed hours ago when the truth of her bloodline gutted her, leaving her silent, fragile in a way Ian had never seen. And Heather had delivered, but Ian’s chest tightened as he studied her composure.Too smooth. Too polished. Almost like she’s already rehearsing for something he didn’t script.
The world was aligning as he’d forced it to, but still, a doubt gnawed at him, sharp and quiet. Control wasn’t the same as certainty. And today, he didn’t trust any of them.
THIRTY-FIVE
MEDICAL WING ROOM 7 – ONE DAY LATER – 1130 HOURS
The ceiling above her was too bright. Not glaring, but white, steady, unnatural. It hummed with power like a thing that had never known rest. The bed beneath her was soft and still. The air felt too clean.
She blinked. Her mouth was dry. Her arms ached. Her heart… didn’t know what to do.
She turned her head. And there he was.
Tuck Hanlon was sitting just to her right, in a chair pulled close to the bed, still as a statue except for the way his fingers laced and unlaced slowly. He was dressed in clean black scrubs. His black HOKA shoes looked like they hadn’t moved in hours. His face was worn out, stubble sharp along his jaw, eyes darker than usual. He looked like a man who hadn’t slept.
“Tuck,” she croaked.
His head lifted, and his eyes met hers. And for a moment, just a second, the worry in them dropped away. “You’re awake.” His voice was low and soft at the edges. He pressed some damp rolled gauze to her dry lips.
Claire tried to sit up.
“Nope,” he said quickly, reaching to keep her shoulders down. “Don’t do that. You need to stay still a little longer.”
Her fingers fisted the blanket. “Where is he?”
Tuck didn’t need her to explain who. “ICU. Still with us. It’s bad. But he’s hangin’ on.”
Claire shut her eyes for a second. Just to breathe. Just to stay clear in her own head. “What happened?” she asked. “After I… after I dropped?”
Tuck leaned back a little. “You scared the hell outta all of us.” He continued, slower now, “You had a good rest. You slept for a day. We ran some tests.” His Texas drawl slipped in, faint but unmistakable. “Your body was runnin’ on fumes. Dehydration, exhaustion, stress, shock.”
Claire exhaled. “That’s all?”
Tuck hesitated, then he shook his head once. “No, darlin’,” he said gently. “That ain’t all.”
