“The surgery was successful,” he said, cutting through the poison in the air. “We stopped the hemorrhaging. He’s stable.”
A collective, exhale followed. Mrs. Ashworth sagged. Brielle hiccuped a sob.
“But,” the surgeon continued, his tone grave, “the trauma was significant. We had to perform a craniectomy—remove a section of the skull to relieve the pressure. He’s in a medically induced coma. We won’t know about brain function until we try to bring him out. The next 72 hours are critical.”
He was alive, but barely.
Mrs. Ashworth’s quiet sobs was the only sound. Alastair stared at the floor, his vicious energy drained. Julian’s hand found the small of my back again.
The fight was meaningless now. There were no sides, just the awful, shared precipice of waiting. The victory was that he was alive. The tragedy was the terrifying unknown of what came next.
Chapter 23
Elara
I sighed, rubbing the palm of my hand over my eyes. The air inside the building smelled of stale coffee, desperation, and the cloying scent of the flowers Mrs. Ashworth kept bringing in, as if their fragrance could cover the metaphorical rot of my soul.
I’d been back at work for six months. I'd been pulled in by tears and guilt, and the sound of Mrs. Ashworth’s sobs in Grandpa Lionel’s foyer. Mr. Ashworth was in rehab; he could barely form a sentence. They needed me to fix everything. They’d made bad investments, and the medical bills were flowing in like water under a cracked door. The baby had been premature, and Alastair—he was fucking useless. In the month I’d been gone before the accident, some investors had pulled out. The board was circling like sharks.
Alistair still strutted around like a man burdened by brilliance instead of incompetence. He was still disrespectful, still reckless, and managed to make everything worse without technically doing anything at all. Now that I was back in charge, all he did was criticize every move, questioning my “loyalty” to the family.
Loyalty.The word felt like a rusty nail in my mouth. Loyalty to what? To the cage?
From my office, I could see the silver-framed photo of the baby on Alastair’s desk. He was five months old now—Lionel. They’dnamed him after the grandfather who’d disinherited his father. It was an attempt to appease him; it hadn’t worked.
The Ashworths wererich. That meant nice cars, country clubs, and trust-fund comfort. But their money moved—tied to salaries and a company that could bleed. And it was bleeding because fast fashion had replaced two-hundred-dollar underwear.
The Hales werewealthy. Their money didn’t move. It sat. It generated. It grew while they slept. The Ashworths had access to money; the Hales had ownership of entire economies. I was learning the difference—not just in balance sheets, but in posture.
I was no longer the daughter-in-law. I was their savior, expected to protect the kingdom from the prince who was meant to inherit it. They’d placed that martyr’s crown on my head because their own necks were too weak to hold it up.
I pulled the files on my desk—a chronicle of a fall. Medical bills for endless rehab, neurologists, a live-in therapist. And then Alastair’s disastrous venture into athleisure. It was death by a thousand paper cuts, and every one of them had Alastair’s initials on the memo line.
Julian walked into my office. He didn’t speak. He simply began to stack the papers.
“What are you doing?” my voice felt raw.
“You’re done,” he said, not looking at me. “I called your assistant. She said you haven’t eaten. You’re killing yourself for people who wouldn’t fetch you a glass of water if you were on fire, Elara. You don’t see me anymore. You don’t see anything but these numbers. And it’s hurting you.”
“A bit of suffering lets you know if you’re human or ghost.”
Julian went still. He came around the desk, his hands settling on the arms of my chair, caging me in. “Where did you hear that?”
I shrugged. “It’s just something people say.”
“No,” he cut in, his voice low. “It’s somethingtheysay. The Ashworths. It’s genteel, poetic bullshit used to make misery sound noble. So they can watch you suffer and call it ‘character building’ instead of what it really is, exploitation.” He leaned in closer. “Suffering doesn’t prove you’re human, Elara. It proves you’re in pain.Joyproves you’re human. Choice proves you’re human.”
He brushed a thumb over the dark circle under my eye. “You’re my woman. I’m not letting you fade away for a company that would replace you before your body was cold. Get up. We’re going to eat. Now.”
He pulled me up. I went. Because when he was around, my usefulness stopped mattering. I knew he’d take care of me without making me feel small for needing it.
Quinn drove us to a restaurant so fancy the menus didn’t have prices. When the food came, Julian took my plate and meticulously cut the steak into perfect, bite-sized squares. He pushed the plate back to me. “Eat.”
The man who could bankrupt companies with a phone call had cut my steak.It said to me that he was saying to me that...Your only job here is to exist. I’ll handle the rest.
I ate. Slowly at first, then faster with a hunger I hadn’t realized was there.
In the car afterward, the exhaustion hit me like a tidal wave. I curled into him, my head finding the solid curve of his shoulder. His arm came around me.
