I retreated to the adjacent study after settling Ava. It was a small room, functional and cold, equipped with a desk, a sparse bookshelf, and a low, uncomfortable leather couch. I needed the separation.
I needed the silence to process the reports that were already stacking up, the structural failure investigation, the PR strategy, the containment of my father's fury.
I opened my laptop, but the steady thump of my own heart was louder than the humming of the machine. I kept my ears tuned to the thin wall between the study and Ava's suite.
Every cough, every shift of the sheets, sent a spike of anxiety through me.
I lasted forty-five minutes before the first call came.
A small, hesitant tap on the adjoining door.
I was across the room instantly, opening the door without a sound. Ava was propped up, looking miserable, her face pale in the low light of the bedside lamp.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice rough.
