Glowing lights beam through the iCafe/Sorcery windows into the dusky twilight like a beacon. Instinctively, Olivia Ortiz scans the parking lot for a familiar white Corniche, but it’s not here. Oh right, he had to sell it, didn’t he? Such a shame. Another look confirms that Tristan Campbell’s Lexus isn’t here either.

He’s not inside. Unless he’s reduced to taking the bus now. The thought pleases her, but seems doubtful. This place has money dripping from every inch. He must have some reserves she doesn’t know about. On the other hand, for all she knows, he traded in the Lexus and has a new car she wouldn’t recognize. He might be here after all.

Still, because she’s the reckless type, she turns off the Jaguar's engine, opens her door, and steps out of the car to get a better measure of the redesigned club.

She heads around the far side of the building to take a closer peek inside the windows. The sight impresses her: the interior design appeals more to her own style of decor than Boondoggles ever did. Sleek, spare, sexy. Against her will she has to admit she likes it.

“Well, now. If it ain’t the gypsy girl herself.”

The low, purring voice jolts Olivia out of her thoughts and sends her whirling around...

Charles Stanford watches his daughter for a few silent moments from the door of her private room before addressing her. “We’re going home in a couple of hours,” he says distinctly. “Shouldn’t you be getting dressed?”

Chelsea doesn’t look up, and at first he thinks he didn’t speak loudly enough to get past her damaged hearing. But then her shoulders lift and fall in a tight shrug. “I’ll get ready in my own time. And you’re going home, not me. I’m going to your house. Your wife’s house.”

He steps further into he room and tries to catch Chelsea’s gaze, which is fixed on the hospital wristband between her fingers. He doesn’t speak again until he’s right by her side, next to her less damaged ear. “It’s still somewhere you’re very welcome, honey. We’ve talked about this. You can’t be stuck in your apartment by yourself. You need to be around people who can care for you.”

“People who care for me, yeah.”

“You don’t think I care—”

“You do.” Chelsea faces him at last. “And Jason. But Ty probably couldn’t care less, and Cynthia doesn’t want me there. You know she doesn’t.”

“That’s ridiculous. She’s the one who suggested it.”

He supposes it was absurd to expect Chelsea to believe this. “Oh right. If she’s so generously opening her home to me, where is she? She hasn’t visited me once.”

“Did you want her to?”

Chelsea snorts and leans back on her pillows, staring up at the ceiling. “You got a point there.”