but she barely felt it. She sat slumped against the bathtub, he

ars ago. Long Island. A sprawling estate decorat

e, her hands shaking so hard the bouquet trembled. The church was packed wi

, except

arm, the older woman's voice smooth as venom. "He's closing

sistant Alex-that Dante had chartered a private jet to St. Moritz. Beca

of a Swiss clinic. He had stood across from her, the priest droning on about holy matrimony, and when it came time

landline jolted Helen

ng with pins and needles, and rus

her voice tight with panic. "It's Master Julian. T

lf-brother. The sickly, forgotten son of the Velasquez family. The only person in thi

n," Helena said

think about the fact that she had just told her husband she was leaving. All she could t

faintly of antiseptic and sweat. Julian was curled into a tight ball under his du

bed, pressing her hand to his cheek. His

fluttering open. They were gl

n. It rang and rang before going to voicemail. She called the emergency line. The nurs

ldn't wait. A fever this high, with his

ing the duvet back. "We'r

to stay..." Julian groane

s, heaving him upright. He was tall but painfully thin, and she ma

nderground garage and into the backseat of the Bentley. She buckled him in, his

idn't even bother with the GPS, relying on a frantic, two

city lights blurred past the windshield, a stream of gold and

ian's breathing was shallow, his face g

ing the steering wheel so hard her knuckles

e with Dante. But Julian was different. Julian was innocent. As

ake sure he was safe. And then, she wo

s the Bentley sped down the FDR Drive,