A growl tore from Elias's throat, raw and guttural. His knuckles, already white, pressed harder against the polished mahogany desk. Dr. Thorne’s flight, grounded. A “technical issue.” Elias knew better. This wasn't bad luck. This was calculated. "Find him," Elias bit out, his voice a low tremor. "Get him another plane. A private jet. Anything. I don't care about cost. Get him here, now." His chief of staff, Marcus, nodded, already barking orders into his comms. The crisis room, usually a hub of quiet efficiency, pulsed with a frantic energy. Every screen flickered with flight paths, weather reports, and the faces of high-ranking airline officials. Elias’s gaze remained fixed on the one showing Dr. Thorne’s stranded plane, a tiny icon frozen on a digital map. Someone was playing a cruel game. A game with Leo's life as the stake. His mind raced, piecing together the recent attacks. The media smear, the gallery sabotage, now this. The precision, the timing. It all pointed to one person. Julian Vance. "Marcus," Elias commanded, turning sharply. "I want a full audit. Every single contract, every agreement, every partnership we have. Start with Elara’s gallery. Dig into everything, especially anything Julian Vance has touched or might exploit." Marcus's eyes widened slightly at the urgency, but he simply nodded, assembling a legal and financial team with a wave of his hand. Hours bled into one another. Coffee cups piled high. The air grew thick with unspoken dread. Elias paced, a restless predator, his phone an extension of his hand, demanding updates. Every avenue for Dr. Thorne was blocked. Every single flight, every backup plan, met with an inexplicable, impenetrable wall of bureaucracy or sudden, convenient 'technical malfunctions.' Julian wasn’t just interfering; he was strangling them. Fear, cold and sharp, pierced through Elias's rage. Leo's oxygen levels fluctuated. The experimental therapy was their best chance, perhaps their only chance. He thought of Elara, her pale face, her unwavering hope. How could he tell her this? "Mr. Thorne, sir!" A young legal assistant burst into the room, breathless. He clutched a thick, yellowed document. Elias spun around, his heart hammering. "What is it?" "The gallery contract, sir. The original founding document for Elara's gallery. It was buried deep in the archives, cross-referenced under a subsidiary company that was dissolved years ago. Julian Vance's name is all over the early drafts." Elias snatched the papers, his eyes scanning the dense legalese, his jaw tightening with each line. Section 7, Clause C. "Conditions of Forfeiture and Transfer of Rights." His breath hitched. The words blurred, then snapped into chilling focus. It was a poison pill, cleverly disguised, an absolute trap. This clause stated that if the gallery's primary founder—Elara—were to be deemed

Chapter 47: The Hidden Clause Revealed