Chapter 30 Yuna
Yuna
“Nobody Was Hurting Me”
The first thing I noticed when I finally woke up after they pumped me with meds after I passed out was the peace.
No drugs in my blood.
That was the loud part.
My eyes opened slowly, like my brain was still catching up to my body. The ceiling above me was smooth and white, recessed lights tucked clean into it. The air smelled like lemon and antiseptic. Too clean.
My mouth was dry as hell. My tongue felt like sandpaper.
A nurse stepped into my view, calm, steady. She didn’t rush me, didn’t hover like I was fragile.
“Bonjour, Yuna,” she said softly. “You’re awake. It’s been almost forty-eight hours since you’ve been sleeping. They told me you speak French.”
I blinked up at her. “Yes, but I understand it more than I speak it. You can speak to me in English.” My father taught us French, but I preferred not to speak it.
“Okay. How do you feel?”
“Like I got hit by a truck,” I muttered.
She nodded politely. I looked at my arm, and an IV was taped down.
“What’s in me?”
“Fluids,” she said calmly. “Vitamins. Medication to help your body stabilize.”
“What medication?”
She didn’t flinch at the question. I appreciated that.
“Support for detox,” she said. “Something for nausea, something to help you rest. And vitamins. Nothing you can get addicted to. Your body was extremely depleted when you fainted.”
I studied her face. She wasn’t lying.
Just careful.
She picked up a small cup and handed it to me. “Water first, then you can go take a shower.”
My hand shook when I grabbed it, and I hated that instantly.
The water hit my stomach, and my body cramped like it didn’t trust kindness anymore.
“Slow,” she said.
“I’m not fragile,” I muttered.
“I didn’t say you were,” she replied calmly.
Fair.
I leaned my head back into the pillow, staring at the tall windows across the room. Thick glass. Expensive curtains. Outside, I could see a trimmed garden and a stone path.
Beautiful.
Like a luxury prison.
My voice came out before I could stop it.
“Where’s Ares?”
The nurse paused for half a second.
“He returned to Los Angeles this morning.”
Something small tightened in my chest.
I ignored it.
“Oh,” I said flatly.
She adjusted the blanket. “You’ll be resting a lot. That’s normal. Your body needs time.”
“Great,” I muttered.
“We’ll bring broth in an hour, just tell me what flavor.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“We’ll bring it anyway.”
“And if I don’t eat?”
She met my eyes. “Then we’ll try again later. But you need nutrition. We prefer you eat so we don’t have to intervene.”
Intervene.
That word meant feeding tubes and decisions I didn’t control.
I exhaled slowly. “Fine. I’ll have chicken broth.”
She gave a small nod, a remote, and stepped out.
The quiet rushed back in.
I stared at the ceiling and listened to my own breathing until I was annoyed. I turned on the television and found an old movie. Devil In A Blue Dress to be exact.
I drifted in and out of sleep, and that happened for the first couple of days.
Woke up. Ate fresh fruit. Slept. Woke up again to something good to eat.
Every time I woke up, the routine was the same.
Vitals.
Vitamin injections.
Medication.
Warm tea instead of alcohol.
They walked me outside once a day with a nurse nearby. Not hovering, just close enough to grab me if my legs decided to fold.
Then sleep again.
It was repetitive.
Safe.
And weirdly unsettling.
When you live in chaos long enough, safety feels fake.
My brain kept looking for something to fight.
Why did they bring me here?
Why does that nigga think he can control me?
Why didn’t my family tell me I was royalty?
But the longer I stayed here, the more something uncomfortable started creeping in.
Nobody was hurting me.
Nobody was yelling.
Nobody was forcing anything.
They were just… waiting.
Waiting for me to stabilize.
That messed with my head more than chaos ever did.
By the fourth day, my hands were steady enough to hold a pencil.
I had my sketchbook open on my lap and my robe tied tight around me. My hair was clean and wet, and my legs were finally strong enough to sit upright without feeling like I was gonna collapse.
I started sketching the room.
The curve of the chair.
The tall windows.
The plainclothes security walking outside.
Drawing had always slowed my brain down. It forced you to pay attention to detail. Shapes. Angles. The way shadows moved.
And I liked studying things.
Objects.
People who I thought were preying on me.
Suddenly, I heard someone punching in the code to my door.
It wasn’t my nurse; it was a different energy that I didn’t know I needed.
The door opened, and Genevieve stepped inside.
Elegant coat. Silk scarf. Jewelry that probably cost more than anything I’ve ever owned. I knew Genevieve from the meeting and as Ares’ mother. But I never been in the same room with her before then.
But what stood out wasn’t the money.
It was the way she carried herself.
Not stiff.
Not nervous.
Just… composed.
Her green hazel eyes landed on me and stayed there.
No pity.
No judgment.
Just observation.
“Bonjour, Yuna,” she said.
“Bonjour,” I replied, matching her tone.
Her eyes flicked to my sketchbook. “You draw.”
“I do a lot of things,” I replied.
A small smile pulled at her mouth.
She walked to the chair and sat down across from me like we were two women meeting for coffee instead of sitting in a detox suite.
She studied me quietly.
“You look like someone who’s been through too much, too young,” she said.
I leaned back slightly. “That’s why you came?”
“I came to see you myself,” she said. “And because I understand forced situations.”
I stiffened.
She kept going.
“I know what it feels like to be pushed into something you didn’t choose.”
I watched her closely.
Tone steady.
Eye contact direct.
No manipulation in the body language.
Interesting.
“You think I’m gonna sit here and smile through this?” I asked.
“No, and that’s a good thing,” she replied, sounding sure.
That caught me off guard.
She leaned forward slightly, hands resting together.
“I’m not here to judge your addiction,” she said.
I huffed. “How generous.”
“I’m serious,” she said calmly. “I understand why people run from their family or marriage. Sometimes destroying yourself feels easier than letting someone else do it.”
That line landed deeper than I expected.
“I feel like I got thrown in a shark tank.”
She held my gaze.
“You’re not being thrown to sharks.”
I scoffed. “That’s exactly what this feels like.”
Her voice sharpened slightly.
“No. Sharks attack because they’re hungry. My son doesn’t devour broken women. He rebuilds them.”
I studied her.
Part of me wanted to laugh.
Part of me remembered the way Ares looked at me in Vegas.
Like he already knew exactly what I was.
I knew Ares always liked me and was willing to give up everything for me in the past. But fucking and dumping rich men used to be a sport for me. Now, I wondered if he already knew I would belong to him.
“And you’re just telling me that out of kindness?”
“I’m telling you because I raised him and know him better than any woman.”
I crossed my arms loosely. “I don’t trust your family.”
Genevieve didn’t hesitate.
“Neither do I. I don’t trust most of the Delacroix family,” she added calmly. “And I definitely don’t trust the Laveaus.”
That got my attention.
“Fascinating,” I said slowly.
Her mouth curved slightly. “Families like ours aren’t built on trust.”
“So what do you want?” I asked.
“I want you alive,” she said simply. “I want you clear-headed. I want you strong again. After that, what you choose is your business. But it can’t be a weak girl’s move. I need you to step into power and not be afraid.”
I studied her again.
She was genuine.
Mostly.
There was still motive underneath. Power always came with motive.
But she wasn’t lying.
“I’m not afraid of power,” I said.
“I know,” she replied. “You’re afraid of being owned.”
“I’m not property,” I said.
“You’re not, and I won’t let that happen. When I was seventeen,” she said, “I was pushed into a marriage I didn’t want.”
That made my eyes narrow slightly.
“I didn’t get saved quickly,” she continued. “So I recognize that look in your eyes.”
She stood slowly.
“Rest,” she said. “Eat. Get stronger. I will be back in a few days to check on you.”
She moved toward the door, then paused.
“You don’t have to like my son,” she said. “But don’t underestimate him.”
“I don’t underestimate anyone.”
That made her smile.
“Good,” she said before leaving.
I stared out the window at the garden.
At the stone path.
At the space between the gates, where someone could run if they really wanted to.
My mind drifted back to Ares.
His voice was calm, like the world already belonged to him.
I hated men like that.
But I couldn’t stop thinking about him.
I looked down at my sketchbook again and flipped to a blank page.
My pencil started moving before I could stop it.
Sharp jaw.
Green-hazel eyes.
I shaded them darker than the rest.
Like he was looking straight through me.
The question slipped out quietly.
“When’s he coming back?”