The plan’s success had depended on one crucial factor—the enemy’s ignorance of Lucas. They had underestimated just how dangerous he could be when he decided to act. Sloane leaned against his chest, eyes bright with quiet admiration. "You really are brilliant." Lucas tapped her lightly on the forehead. "Flattery won’t get you anywhere." "What about that assassin?" "That was an opportunity," Sloane said, frowning slightly. "He came to kill me, so I used it to my advantage. Faking the poisoning bought me the time I needed to treat Mr. Jackson in secret." Lucas exhaled slowly, the memory still raw. "Do you have any idea what it felt like—seeing you lying there, motionless, thinking you might never wake up?" His fingers unconsciously tightened around hers, then loosened again when he realized he might be hurting her. Sloane brought his hand to her cheek, her voice soft. "It’s over now. What matters is that Mr. Jackson is safe, and the traitor’s been caught." Later that afternoon, Mr. Jackson arrived at the medical wing with the ambassador and Kaizen. He carried a bouquet of white lilies, his expression solemn yet full of gratitude. "Dr. Rivers," he said warmly, placing the flowers beside her bed, "thanks to you and Mr. Hawthorne, not only was my life saved, but an important agreement between our nations has been preserved." Sloane tried to sit up, but Mr. Jackson quickly motioned for her to stay still. "Please, don’t move. You’re still recovering." Lucas stood nearby, his posture composed. "We only did what anyone in our position should have done." Mr. Jackson shook his head, his tone firm. "No—you went far beyond duty. You both risked your lives. The government won’t forget what you’ve done. I’ve already requested that your names be entered into the Ministry of Foreign Affairs’ Honor Record." Before leaving, he clasped their hands sincerely. "When you’ve both recovered, I’ll host a dinner to thank you properly." After he left, Lucas helped Sloane lie back down. She had barely closed her eyes when the door burst open and Shawn rushed in, his voice full of alarm."Something’s wrong! Uncle Tony wants a divorce!" The words hit like an explosion. Sloane bolted upright, ignoring the pain in her back. "What? What happened?" "Just now," Shawn said quickly, lowering his voice. "Uncle Tony came back from Farocia—with that secretary, Dania—and the first thing he did was tell Aunt Beth he wants a divorce." Lucas’s expression darkened. "Where are they?" "At the Oliver estate," Shawn said, his tone uneasy. "Aunt Beth looks calm, but I can tell she’s barely holding it together." Sloane threw back the covers. "We have to go." Lucas stopped her. "You’re still injured." "Beth and Mr. Tony have been together for years," she said, eyes steady and cold. "For him to suddenly demand a divorce—it doesn’t make sense. Something’s off, and I need to see for myself." Lucas looked at her for a long moment, then sighed in defeat. "Fine. I’ll drive. But you’re staying in the wheelchair—no arguments." Half an hour later, the car pulled up in front of the Oliver family’s old mansion. The air inside was unnervingly still. No shouting, no chaos—just a heavy, suffocating quiet. The butler met them at the entrance and spoke in a low voice. "Mr. Jeffrey has asked that Mr. Hawthorne and Ms. Rivers go straight to the study." In the study, Jeffrey sat rigidly in a high-backed chair, his face dark and unreadable. Beth sat beside him, impeccably dressed and composed, though the redness at the corners of her eyes betrayed her pain. By the window stood Tony, immaculate in his suit. Beside him was Dania—flawless makeup, polished smile—and their hands were interlaced.