The jet was already being prepared.
That was how Ivy found out.
Not from her father.
Not from Killian.
From the staff.
She was standing in the corridor outside the infirmary when two house managers rushed past, whispering about flight arrangements, New York medical specialists, and press coordination.
Her pulse steadied into something cold.
So it was decided.
She stepped into Arthur Sterling’s office without knocking.
The room was exactly as it always was—sterile, polished, powerful. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Oakhaven’s skyline. A mahogany desk positioned like a throne.
Arthur didn’t look surprised to see her.
“You should be resting,” he said calmly.
“I’ll rest in New York, apparently.”
Silence.
Killian Whitestone stood near the window, hands in his tailored coat p
