Chapter 57
Chapter 57:
“I do when it concerns your survival,” he countered, his eyes dark and unyielding.
Azalea bounced into the kitchen in pajamas covered in cartoon avocados. “Morning! How’s the invalid p>
“Oppressed,” Eliza said, gesturing to the smoothie.
“Dad’s in General Mode,” Azalea whispered, loudly enough for the entire room to hear. “Good luck. He’s got spreadsheets p>
а𝖽𝗱𝗂𝗰tіv𝖾 𝗌𝘁𝗼r𝘪𝘦s 𝗈𝘯
Dallas ignored them both. “Car in ten minutes.” He picked up his coffee and walked out to the balcony to take a call.
Eliza turned to Azalea. “He’s intense. Even for him p>
Azalea’s smile faded. She looked serious. “He was scared, Eliza p>
Scared? Dallas?
“I’ve never seen him that scared,” Azalea said. “Not even when — well, never mind. But listen.” She leaned in, her voice dropping. “When he came back from the war, he was a mess. He has scars, Eliza. Inside and out. Losing people triggers something in him. He controls things because he believes that if he manages every variable, nobody dies p>
Eliza looked toward the balcony. Dallas was pacing, his broad back to them. She thought about the scars she had sensed but never seen.
His control wasn’t about power, she realized. It was a trauma response. He was terrified of the chaos that took people away from him.
Her annoyance dissolved into understanding.
“I’ll go get ready,” Eliza said softly.
She finished her smoothie and headed to her room, resolved to be patient with him.
From the hallway, Dallas watched her go. He pressed a hand to his chest, right over his heart. The fear of losing her still lived there, a cold, stubborn knot.
He needed to secure her future. Not just her health.
He pulled up a browser on his phone and navigated to the careers page for S&D Design, the prestigious architecture firm owned by Koch Industries. His thumb hovered over the listing for a Junior Restoration Consultant. A quiet, determined look settled over his face. He wouldn’t simply hand her the position — that would be an insult to her pride. But he could open a door, and make sure the opportunity found its way to her. The rest would be up to her. He only needed to build the arena. She was already a fighter.
The morning sun struck the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse, but its light never reached the dining table. The mood was heavy — thick enough to choke on.
Eliza watched Dallas across the vast expanse of marble as he lowered his tablet. He looked like a king surveying a battlefield he had already conquered, but she saw it now — the tension in his shoulders wasn’t arrogance; it was vigilance. The rigid set of his jaw wasn’t anger; it was control. Azalea’s words from the night before echoed in her mind: He controls things because he thinks if he controls every variable, nobody dies.