Chapter 4: You Still Cry More Than You Used To

Lena's POV

The bodyguard's rough palm had barely closed around my shoulder when the heavy double doors at the far end of the living room swung open from the outside.

A gust of night air swept in, cold and laced with rain, followed by the measured, unhurried sound of footsteps.

I looked up without thinking.

Julian Anderson walked into the living room in a long, dark overcoat, his stride unhurried and deliberate. He was tall, with a strong brow and gray-blue eyes that swept the room with the kind of quiet authority that made people instinctively step back. Jack followed close behind, carrying several neatly wrapped gift boxes.

The air in the room seemed to freeze solid.

"It appears I've arrived at an awkward moment." Julian's gaze settled on the bodyguard whose hand was still on my shoulder. His voice was measured, almost flat, but the weight behind it was unmistakable. "Lauren, I have to say — your way of looking after your niece is rather unique."

The satisfaction drained from Lauren's face in an instant, replaced by something that looked very much like panic. She lurched to her feet so quickly her knee struck the edge of the coffee table, but she barely flinched, forcing a smile onto her face. "Mr. Anderson — what brings you here at this hour?"

"I heard about Richard. I came to see Isabella." He didn't look at Lauren. He walked directly toward me, and the two bodyguards, as if moved by some invisible force, released their grip and stepped back.

I leaned against the banister and exhaled, long and slow, feeling the worst of the tension loosen its hold.

Lauren's expression curdled. She set her jaw and tried to reclaim the upper hand. "Mr. Anderson, this is a private Lambert family matter. Lena only just turned up after years away — she doesn't know how things work here, and she spoke to me with a great deal of disrespect. I was simply correcting her. With respect, this isn't your concern."

Julian tilted his head slightly and looked at her. The temperature in the room seemed to drop another degree.

"Not my concern?" His tone remained even. "Isabella and I have known each other for decades. She's just lost her son. I came to check on an old friend. Are you telling me I'm not welcome to do that, Lauren?"

Lauren opened her mouth and closed it again. In New York, no one with any sense made an enemy of the head of the Anderson family — not when Julian's commercial empire was the kind of thing that even the Lamberts had to work around on certain deals. She swallowed whatever she'd been about to say and stepped aside with a stiff, humorless smile.

"Take me to her," Julian said, glancing down at me.

I shot him a grateful look. Whether by his instruction or simply by instinct, neither Julian nor Jack had said a word to reveal who I really was — and I found myself thankful for that small mercy. I still didn't know whether Julian's arrival tonight had been a coincidence or something more deliberate, but either way, he had done me an enormous favor.

I turned and went up the stairs without a word. This time, Lauren didn't try to stop us — she and her husband and the oily Daniel trailed behind in silence, the fight gone out of them for the moment.

Following the description Glew had given me earlier, I found the master bedroom at the end of the hall. I pushed the door open.

The air inside was heavy and stale. A single wall sconce burned low, and the windows were shut tight. I crossed to the bed quickly.

Grandmother Isabella lay against the pillows, her face the color of old paper, her brow drawn together as though even in unconsciousness she was carrying something unbearable. The room was enormous and completely empty — no attendant, no nurse, no one at all. The nightstand held nothing: no water, no medication, not a single piece of monitoring equipment. She was eighty years old, freshly devastated by news of her son's death, and she had been left entirely alone.

The anger that moved through me was the kind that burns cold.

I turned and looked at Lauren. "This is how you've been caring for her? You drove out the household staff, you left her without a single nurse — what exactly are you hoping will happen to her?"

Caught in front of Julian, Lauren's composure cracked for just a moment before she raised her voice to cover it. "What a thing to say. The family physician came and examined her. He said she needs complete rest and quiet — no disturbances. I was following his instructions."

"Complete rest," I repeated. "And if she goes into shock tonight, or her heart gives out — who finds her? You?"

"I am her daughter," Lauren snapped. "Don't stand there and imply—"

"I'm not implying anything." My voice was shaking. So were my hands. "I'm asking you a direct question."

I already knew there was no point in arguing with her. Lauren needed Isabella incapacitated — or worse — to get what she wanted from the estate. I had no leverage, no allies in this house, and no way to move Grandmother on my own.

I steadied my breathing and turned to Julian.

He was standing a few feet away, watching me with an expression I couldn't read.

"Mr. Anderson." My throat was tight. I could hear the plea in my own voice and couldn't do anything about it. "Would you be willing to help me get her to a hospital?"

I wasn't sure he would say yes. A few hours ago, I'd walked in on his son Elliott in a situation that had ended my marriage and humiliated everyone in that room. Whatever Julian thought of Elliott's behavior, the fact remained that I had been his daughter-in-law — in name, at least — and the awkwardness of asking him for anything tonight was not lost on me. We had never been close; in three years of marriage to Elliott, I had exchanged perhaps a handful of real conversations with Julian, and those had all been at family dinners or formal events where no one said anything that mattered.

The discomfort of the position sat in my chest like a stone. But he was the only person in this room with the power to override Lauren, and right now that was all that counted.

Julian looked at me and said nothing. The room was quiet enough that I could hear the rain against the glass.

Then he took a step closer. He raised one hand, and the pad of his thumb brushed across my cheek — warm and slightly rough — and I went completely still, my breath caught somewhere between inhale and exhale.

He wiped the tear from the corner of my eye with the same unhurried calm he seemed to bring to everything.

"Don't worry," he said. His voice was low and carried a steadiness that, against my better judgment, I found myself leaning into. "I've already made arrangements."

On cue, Jack stepped into the doorway, and behind him came a medical team in uniform — four people moving with practiced efficiency, carrying equipment. Within moments they had attached a portable monitor to Isabella, their hands quick and sure.

The attending physician straightened and turned to Julian. "Blood pressure is low, heart rhythm is irregular, mild hypoxia present. She needs to be transferred to a hospital immediately for a full assessment."

Julian gave a single nod. "Take her."

The team moved Grandmother onto a gurney and wheeled her toward the door. I stayed right beside her, one hand resting near hers, unwilling to be separated by even a few steps.

Lauren came after us, her heels sharp on the floor. "Wait — I'm her daughter, I have every right to come—" She reached for the side of the gurney, and Jack stepped in front of her without a word.

Julian paused at the threshold and looked back at her. "The ambulance doesn't have room," he said, with the tone of someone closing a topic of conversation. "Stay here, Lauren. Think carefully about the standard of care you've provided tonight. I would strongly prefer that Isabella not be troubled by unpleasant news when she wakes up."

He walked out without waiting for her response.

The rain was still falling.

I climbed into the ambulance after the gurney and sat beside Grandmother, holding her cold hand in both of mine as the medics worked — fitting an oxygen mask, running a line, watching the monitor. The number on the screen that tracked her heart rate felt like the only thing in the world that mattered.

The door was nearly closed when Julian stepped in and sat down across from me.

The compartment was not large to begin with, and his presence seemed to compress it further. The faint scent of cedar and cold rain came with him, filling the small space.

The ambulance pulled away from the estate. The siren started up, cutting through the wet dark outside.

I kept my eyes on Grandmother for a moment, then looked up at him. "Thank you," I said. "I mean it. If you hadn't been there tonight, I don't know what I would have done."

Julian leaned back against the wall of the compartment, one leg crossed over the other, unhurried as always. He looked at me — at my red-rimmed eyes, at the state of my hair — and the corner of his mouth moved in what was almost a smile.

"Lena," he said, and there was something faintly dry in the way he said it. "You seem to cry even more than you used to."

The words landed somewhere unguarded, and I felt the heat rise to my face before I could stop it. I shot him a sideways glance, a strange thought rising unbidden: how would he know I used to cry easily?

I turned away and pressed the back of my hand to my eyes, trying to compose myself.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Anderson." My voice came out rougher than I intended. "It's just — a lot happened today."

He didn't press the point. His gaze shifted to the monitor screen, and the quiet that followed was not unkind.

"Richard and I went back a long way," he said after a moment, his voice dropping into something quieter, more deliberate. "We worked together on a number of deals over the years. We were friends, not just business associates."