Noah looks down again. “That’s what she believed. Or needed you to believe.”
“What does that mean?”
“It wasn’t a kidnapping,” Tex says. “Not technically. We believe it was a revenge plot. Daniel was dating your mom right before she met Lucian.”
“No.” The words feel fragile. Weak. “She wouldn’t…”
“He manipulated her,” Noah’s eyes soften behind his glasses. “She was young, scared, and had a history of drug use. I can only imagine that he used her addiction against her.”
My throat closes. A thousand images flash through my mind — my mom, distracted and strung out, clinging to promises no one else could hear. Her frantic whispers when she thought no one was listening. The way she used to flinch at shadows in motel windows.
“She really believed she was doing the right thing,” I whisper.
No one says anything. But their silence is answer enough.
The weight of it all presses into my chest.
“So what?” I say, too loud, too hollow. “You’re saying… I was some kind of revenge plot?”
No one answers.
Noah’s voice is softer now. “We thought we were tormenting a rich girl with a throne waiting for her. We didn’t know the full story.”
Jace looks away. “None of us did.”
For once, none of them are smirking. None of them look amused. Just grim. Tight. Like they are standing in front of a storm they don’t know how to stop.
“I’d have told her when she was ready,” came a low voice from behind us.
I turn. Lucian stands in the doorway, his coat still dusted with rain, his expression unreadable but unmistakably tense. The room is silent.
“You weren’t supposed to tell her.” His eyes flick to each of them inturn—Jace, Noah, Tex—his voice calm, but deadly. “That wasn’t your truth to reveal.”
“She deserved to know,” Noah says, not backing down.
“And she would have,” Lucian replies. “Fromme.In a way that wouldn’t tear open any decent memory she managed to salvage of her mother.”
His gaze lands on me, softer now, regret simmering just under the surface. “You’ve been through enough, Isobel. I wasn’t trying to protect her—I just… didn’t want to destroy what little peace you had.”
I pick at my nails. I don’t know what to say. My thoughts are too loud. A war between old loyalties and new truths rage in my head.
“I get it,” I finally say, voice quiet. “But it’s too late now.”
Lucian nods slowly, eyes dark. “I know.”
He draws a slow breath, the tension in his shoulders loosening slightly. “Luca made it through surgery,” he says, the exhaustion clear in his voice. “The doctors were able to stop the bleeding and stabilize him. He’s resting now, and you’ll be able to see him later—after you’ve all had some time to recover.”
A collective exhale fills the space.
“He’s okay?” I ask, almost afraid to hope.
Lucian gives me a tired but steady nod. “He’s strong. Stubborn, too.” A faint flicker of something—maybe pride, maybe just relief—passes through his eyes. “He’ll pull through.”
I slump back against the chair, the adrenaline draining from my system all at once. My limbs feel heavy. My head throbs. But underneath all that… a thread of calm.
Lucian looks at us all. “Get some rest. Eat. Shower. You’ve earned it.”
Then, to me alone, with a faint gentleness in his voice, “We’ll talk more later.”
