?Chapter 1088:


    Without a word, he leaned down and scooped her gently into his arms. Careful not to jostle her, he carried her to the bedroom,ying her on the bed with the care of someone cing ss.


    He pulled the nket over her, tucking it around her shoulders, then sat beside her, watching her in the dark.


    “What kind of interview could possibly be worth all of this?” he whispered, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek.


    She looked peaceful now, but the crease on her forehead remained. Slowly, he reached out and smoothed it with his fingers, as if he could chase the worry away.


    Her skin beneath his touch was impossibly soft—porcin smooth, warm, and delicate. He couldn’t help himself. He reached over and gave her cheek a light pinch, a yful smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Just a little payback for all the chaos you cause me—nothing inappropriate, I swear.”


    Then he stood, slipping out of the room with quiet ease, and made his way to her desk. The surface still held traces of her warmth, faint but unmistakable. He ran his fingers gently across her notes. Then, with a calm breath, he flipped through the neatly arranged pages she had prepared.


    Her draft for the interview was a masterpiece of diligence. As he read, a flicker of admiration stirred in his chest. She was tireless when it came to her work—detail-oriented, perceptive, and always chasing the next perfect sentence.


    But she never took care of herself. That part always left a dull ache in the back of his mind.


    He shook the thought away, forcing his attention back to the notes. With measured precision, he trimmed a few questions and reworded others.


    Once the interview draft was polished to satisfaction, he shut theptop and reached for the folder he had assembled the night before.


    It had started with an offhandment Yvonne made. Something about Frank’s early humanitarian efforts. That had been enough. He had made a few calls, passed the word along, and by morning, the first threads hade in.


    Long before Frank became a public figure, he had thrown himself into helping refugees. He lived with them, ate with them, marched alongside them in protest. Back then, his voice had been quiet, lost in the crowd. Few remembered those days, and fewer still had documented them.


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    If it had not been for Lucas, Norton doubted he would have found half as much.


    Now, with the gathered material in hand, he had sorted through the fragments himself—piecing them together with the same care Yvonne showed her own work.


    He stacked the new documents beside Yvonne’s edited notes and leaned back in the chair. His work was done.


    He rose, returned to the bedroom, and slid beneath the sheets. The exhaustion pulled at him immediately, dragging him into sleep. At dawn, Yvonne stirred. Her mind, wired tight as a violin string, snapped her awake.


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