For me.
He stumbles once as we move into the corridor, and that’s when I see it—really see it.
The blood.
Not just from his head.
From his side.
A dark stain spreads across his shirt, thick and relentless.
A bullet.
My stomach drops.
He shouldn’t be standing.
He shouldn’t be walking.
But he is.
Because he’s not thinking about survival.
He’s thinking about mine.
Gunshots echo through the halls as we move—louder now, closer. Voices shouting. Boots pounding against marble floors. The estate is no longer a fortress.
It’s a battlefield.
I try to pull back, just slightly. Not to escape—to steady him.
To help.
But his grip tightens painfully.
“Papa—slow down. You’re hurt—”
He doesn’t even look at me.
Doesn’t respond.
His jaw is locked, his face set in a way I’ve only ever seen when he’s making a decision that cannot be undone.
And then I understand.
He’s not trying to escape with me.
He’s getting me out.
Alone.
“No,” I breathe, shaking my head as realization crashes in. “No—Papa, no—”
He drags me into the study wing.
My stomach drops.
I know where we’re going.
