Chapter 22
Elara
The fluorescent lights of the hospital waiting room buzzed with a sound that drilled into my skull.
The sterile smell, the suspended-time feeling—it had all haunted me since the night my parents died.
I hated being here. My hands were clenched in my pockets, nails digging into my palms. Thirteen-year-old me still lived in the corners of every hospital corridor.
Julian stood beside me. He hadn’t said a word since we’d arrived. He just watched, his gaze tracking the nurses, the orderlies, and the swinging doors to the surgical unit. He was assessing the battlefield.
Mrs. Ashworth was pacing, wringing her hands, looking frail while supported by a family advisor. Thirty minutes passed. Maybe forty. The clock on the wall ticked loud enough to irk my nerves. Still no Alastair. Still no Brielle. Still no news from surgery.
The dread thickened with each minute.
Finally, the doors to the waiting room burst open.
Alastair stormed in, his face pale and twisted, his eyes bloodshot.
They landed on me, then immediately onto Julian.
The air curdled. His whole body went rigid.
He had called me to come to the hospital, but he wasn’t even here when I arrived, and it was his own father in surgery. He disgusted me.
Behind him, Brielle waddled in, her face blotchy, one hand clutching her belly. Alastair didn’t go to his mother. He didn’t ask for updates.
“Why is he here?” Alastair snarled, stalking toward us.
“Alastair, for God’s sake,” Mrs. Ashworth whispered, her voice breaking.
“No! She brings him here? To our family’s worst moment? Is this how you got that contract so easily? You fucked him?”
A few people in the waiting room gasped. The vulgarity, the timing, and the sheer audacity cut through my shock like a shard of glass. A cold, clear calm settled over me. Julian shifted, a low growl forming in his chest. I put a hand on his arm, stopping him from stepping toward Alastair.
I looked Alastair dead in the eye, my voice flat and clear in the hushed room. “So what if I did?”
He blinked, thrown.
“So what if I slept with him for the contract, Alastair? You, your father, and your mistress are going to spend the money either way, aren’t you?
The only difference is, I actually earned it.
I secured the deal that’s going to keep your trust fund topped up and pay for her prenatal vitamins.
So you can stand there and call me whatever you want.
But at the end of the day, you’re welcome. ”
His face mottled purple. He sputtered, robbed of his righteous anger by the sheer, undeniable truth of it. Brielle gasped, her hand tightening on her stomach.
“You heartless bi—”
“ENOUGH!”
This time, it was Julian. His command cracked through the room like a whip, freezing Alastair mid-word. Julian took a few steps forward, putting himself slightly in front of me.
“You will not speak to her like that. Not here. Not ever again. Your father is fighting for his life. Have one ounce of the decency he tried to instill in you and shut your fucking mouth before I fucking shut it for you, permanently.”
The toxic energy was a live wire about to snap. Brielle was crying. Mrs. Ashworth looked like she might faint. Alastair went to open his mouth again anyway.
“STOP IT! JUST STOP!” I shouted. The sound echoed off the walls. I pushed past Julian, “He’s in there! And you’re out here doing this? This is what matters right now?” My voice broke. “Just… stop.”
At that moment, the surgeon pushed through the swinging doors, his face etched with exhaustion. The room froze.
“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.