Chapter 46: Fury and Control
Sabrina settled into the leather chair across from my desk with the kind of satisfied confidence that immediately set my teeth on edge. Whatever she thought she’d discovered, whatever leverage she believed she held, her timing couldn’t have been worse.
“I know you weren’t in Singapore,” she began, her voice carrying the breathless excitement of someone who believed they’d uncovered a conspiracy. “My investigator tracked your jet to a private airfield, followed the trail to what looks like some kind of exclusive medical facility.”
Medical facility. The words could mean anything—rehabilitation center, cosmetic surgery clinic, private hospital catering to wealthy clients seeking discretion. Sabrina had surface information at best.
“And?” I kept my voice deliberately flat, unimpressed by her dramatic revelation.
“And I know you’re involved in something that would be very interesting to certain regulatory agencies. Medical research without proper oversight, perhaps? Experimental treatments for wealthy clients who prefer to avoid traditional channels?”
Her speculation was remarkably close to dangerous territory while still being completely wrong about the specifics. Sabrina had glimpsed the edges of the Cerberus operation without understanding its true scope or purpose.
“You’ve been watching too many conspiracy documentaries,” I said dismissively. “Wealthy people seek medical treatment at private facilities all the time. There’s nothing remotely scandalous about—”
“Then why lie about Singapore?” She leaned forward, eyes bright with the hunt. “Why the elaborate cover story about business negotiations if you were just getting some kind of medical treatment?”
Because the truth would destroy everything I’ve built. But to Sabrina, I simply raised an eyebrow with the kind of condescending patience reserved for particularly slow children.
“Perhaps because my medical privacy is none of your business? Perhaps because I prefer not to discuss personal health matters with ex-lovers who have demonstrated a disturbing tendency toward stalking behavior?”
The barb hit home—I saw her flinch, saw the momentary crack in her confident facade. But she rallied quickly, desperation making her bold.
“This isn’t about us,” she said, though we both knew that was a lie. “This is about the fact that you’re involved in something questionable, and I’m in a position to—”
Thomas’s knock interrupted her threat, his timing impeccable as always.
“Mr. Thorne, Dr. James has arrived for Mrs. Thorne’s appointment.”
Dr. James. The replacement I’d summoned to handle Calla’s dangerous return to clarity. Whatever Sabrina thought she’d discovered, it paled in comparison to the immediate crisis of my wife’s recovering memories.
“We’ll continue this discussion later,” I told Sabrina, already rising from my desk. “Don’t leave this room.”
“Adrian—”
“Don’t. Leave. This. Room.” The words carried enough menace to make her shrink back into the chair. “We’re not finished, but right now I have more pressing matters to attend to.”
I found Dr. James waiting in the foyer with the kind of professional calm that suggested he was accustomed to handling difficult situations. Middle-aged, competent, discretely recommended by colleagues who understood that some medical interventions required a flexible interpretation of standard protocols.
“The patient is experiencing acute psychological distress,” I explained as we climbed the stairs. “Paranoid delusions, false memories, increasingly erratic behavior. She may resist treatment.”
“I’m prepared for resistance,” Dr. James said simply, his medical bag suggesting he came equipped for multiple contingencies.
We found Calla exactly where I’d left her—sitting on our bed, but now with the rigid posture of someone preparing for battle rather than the dreamy compliance I’d grown accustomed to.
“I won’t take anything,” she said the moment she saw Dr. James. “You can’t force me to—”
But we could, and we did. The process was clinical, efficient, professionally managed. Thomas’s presence ensured compliance while Dr. James administered the injection with practiced precision.
“This won’t hurt,” Dr. James assured her as the needle found its mark. “You’ll just feel very relaxed.”
I watched my wife’s defiance crumble as the medication took hold, watched the sharp awareness in her eyes soften back into the manageable haze I preferred. Within minutes, she was sleeping peacefully, her breathing even and untroubled.
Crisis managed, I thought with satisfaction. At least temporarily.
But as I returned to my study, as the immediate medical emergency was contained, the fury I’d been suppressing during the intervention came flooding back with compound interest.
Sabrina was exactly where I’d left her, though she’d helped herself to my bourbon and was examining the books on my shelves with the kind of casual entitlement that made my jaw clench.
“Feeling better?” she asked without turning around. “You looked rather stressed when you left.”
Stressed. As if she had any comprehension of what I’d just had to manage, what delicate balance I was constantly maintaining.
“My wife was having a medical episode,” I said carefully. “It required immediate attention.”
“How convenient that you had a doctor on call for such emergencies.” Sabrina turned to face me, bourbon glass in hand, her smile sharp with implications. “Almost like you were expecting it.”
The casual observation hit closer to home than I liked. But before I could craft an appropriate deflection, she was moving closer, her body language shifting from confrontational to something more familiar.
“You’re angry,” she observed, setting down her glass and reaching toward me. “I can see it in your shoulders, the way you’re holding yourself.”
Her hands found the knots of tension in my neck with practiced familiarity, fingers working at muscles that had been rigid since I’d first heard Nathaniel’s name pass Calla’s lips hours ago.
“Don’t,” I said, but without the force the word should have carried.
“You’re furious about something,” Sabrina continued, her touch becoming more purposeful, more intimate. “Whatever happened upstairs, whatever crisis you just managed—it’s eating at you.”
It is eating at me. The careful architecture of control I’d spent years building was showing cracks. Calla’s returning memories, Dr. Hayes’s continued absence, Sabrina’s unwelcome investigation into my private affairs—all of it conspiring to destabilize the perfect reality I’d constructed.
“You need to release this tension,” Sabrina murmured, her lips brushing my ear with familiar heat. “You need to let go of whatever’s making you so tight, so controlled.”
Her hands were already working at my shirt, her body pressing against mine with the kind of desperate hunger that had once been intoxicating and was now merely… convenient.
Why not? The thought surfaced through my anger with surprising clarity. Calla was safely sedated upstairs, lost in chemically induced peace. The immediate crisis was contained, the dangerous memories temporarily suppressed.
And Sabrina was here, willing, eager to provide exactly the kind of aggressive outlet my fury required.
“You’re playing a dangerous game,” I warned her, but my hands were already finding familiar territory, reacting to her proximity despite my rational mind’s protests.
“The only dangerous game,” Sabrina breathed against my throat, “is pretending you don’t need this. Pretending you don’t need me.”
As her mouth found mine with hungry desperation, as her hands continued their familiar exploration, I felt some of the rage bleeding out of my system. Not resolution—the problems would still be there when this interlude ended. But temporary relief from the crushing weight of maintaining perfect control over an increasingly chaotic situation.
Let her think she’s won something, I thought as Sabrina’s touch became more insistent. Let her believe her pathetic investigation gives her leverage.
When the time came to deal with her more permanently, her current usefulness would make the eventual disposal all the more satisfying.
But for now, she could serve as exactly what she’d always been—a convenient outlet for needs my carefully managed wife couldn’t fulfill.
Even if that convenience was becoming increasingly costly to maintain.