“Get the car,” William barked into his phone, wrapping a handkerchief around his bleeding hand. “I’m going to the studio.”
He stormed out of his study, adrenaline coursing through him. Dominic Valerius touching his wife. The image was a corrosive acid in his mind. He had to get to her. He had to claim what was his.
He reached the foyer just as Seraphina emerged from the elevator. She was dressed in a pale silk robe, looking spectral and fragile.
“William?” she whispered, her eyes wide. “Where are you going? You’re bleeding.”
“Business,” William said, not breaking stride. “I have to handle Valerius.”
Seraphina’s eyes narrowed imperceptibly. She knew that name. She knew what it meant. If William went to the studio now, in this state, he would fight for Victoria. She couldn’t allow that.
“William, I…” Seraphina swayed. She reached out, grasping the banister, her knuckles white. “I feel… dizzy.”
William paused, hand on the doorknob. “Sit down, Seraphina. I’ll call the nurse.”
“No, it’s–” She let out a sharp gasp, her hand clutching her chest. “It hurts. William, please!”
She collapsed, crumbling to the marble floor in a heap of silk and calculated frailty.
“Seraphina!” William shouted, the urgency of the studio vanishing under the weight of his guilt. He rushed to her side, scooping her up. “Stay with me. I’ve got you.”
He carried her out the door, not toward the studio, but toward the waiting car to speed to the hospital. As he held her, Seraphina buried her face in his chest to hide her small, triumphant smile.