Chapter Eighty-Nine: The Gate and the Glare
The sterile hell of the hospital was interrupted by the last people on earth I wanted to see. Lucas, with his politician's calm, and Julian, with his polished, concerned mask. They stood at the foot of my bed like visiting dignitaries surveying a disaster zone.
"Come on, Aira," Lucas said, his tone dripping with manufactured patience. "This charade is over. You've made your point. It's time to come home."
"Home?" The word was a bitter laugh that scraped my raw throat. "You mean the crypt where you planned to murder my child? Get out."
Julian took a step forward, his blue eyes soft with a pity that made my skin crawl. "Aira, please. You're not well. You're vulnerable. He's manipulated you, broken you. Let me help you. I still… I still care for you. We can still have a future."
I didn't even look at him. My gaze was locked on Lucas—the man who had once been my brother, who now stood before me reeking of the same poison that had destroyed Lyanna, that had nearly destroyed me.
"You," I breathed, the word dripping with venom. "You dare come here. You dare stand in front of me after what you did."
Lucas's expression flickered—uncertainty masked quickly by condescension. "What I did? I'm trying to save you from the mess you've made."
"You killed her." My voice rose, raw and cracking. "Lyanna. You seduced her, used her, and when she became inconvenient, you had her murdered. You killed your own child. And then you came for mine."
His face went pale. "That's enough—"
"You stood in Father's study and told me my baby was an 'abomination'! You offered to have it cut out of me like a tumor!" I was shaking now, fury giving me strength I didn't know I possessed. "You're not my brother. You're not human. You're a monster wearing a man's face."
Julian reached for me. "Aira, calm down—"
"Don't touch me!"
I scrambled off the bed, my body screaming in protest, the hollow emptiness inside me a physical agony. Lucas stepped forward, his hand outstretched—whether to comfort or restrain, I didn't care.
I spat.
The globule landed on his cheek, sliding slowly down his perfectly shaved skin.
He froze. For one glorious, terrible moment, the mask shattered. Raw fury blazed in his eyes—the real Lucas, the killer beneath the politician's polish.
"You—" He grabbed my shoulders, shaking me hard. "You ungrateful little—"
"Get your hands off me!" I shrieked, clawing at his arms. "You killed her! You tried to kill my baby! You're nothing! Nothing!"
He shoved me back onto the bed, my head bouncing off the pillow. Julian stood frozen, handkerchief half-extended, his face a mask of shock.
Lucas straightened, wiping his cheek with the back of his hand, his expression twisting into something cold and reptilian. "Fine," he spat. "Stay here. Rot in the bed your monster husband made for you. We won't lift a finger for you. Don't come crawling back when he discards you for the used, broken thing you are."
He turned and strode out, not looking back.
Julian lingered for a moment, his blue eyes searching my face for something—regret, maybe. Or the ghost of the woman he'd once wanted.
"I won't come to identify your body," he said quietly. Then he followed Lucas into the night.
The silence they left was a blessing.
---
But it was short-lived.
A new, deeper need took hold—a need for the truth, for the people who knew my heart even if they now denied it. I had to make them see. I had to make them hear.
I waited for the shift change, for the moment of inattention when the nurses' station was empty and the hallway quiet. Then, dressed in the thin hospital gown and flimsy slippers, I walked out.
No one stopped a ghost.
The journey to the Royce mansion was a blur of cold pavement and blurred vision. The December air sliced through the paper gown like knives, raising goosebumps across my skin. My body, battered from the inside out, screamed with every step. A dull, persistent ache low in my abdomen had begun—a creeping warmth I tried to ignore, tried to pretend was just the cold, just the exhaustion, just anything other than what I feared it might be.
The mansion loomed ahead, its windows warm with golden light. Home. My home. The place where I'd laughed in sunrooms, planned nurseries, learned to love and be loved.
I stood at the great iron gates, wrapping my arms around myself, the night air slicing through the paper gown.
"Rowan!" My voice was a ragged cry, torn from the hollow place where my heart used to be. "Mother! Sophia! Please! Please, listen to me!"
No answer. Only the soft rustling of winter leaves and the distant hoot of an owl.
"Please!" I shook the gates, the cold metal biting into my palms. "I know you're in there! I know you can hear me! Just look at me! Just let me explain!"
The house remained silent. Golden. Indifferent.
Leon materialized from the shadows near the gatehouse, his face an impassive wall. He wore a thick coat, his breath misting in the cold air. Against him, I was barely dressed, barely human, barely alive.
"Mrs. Royce." His voice was neutral, professional, but something flickered in his eyes—pity, maybe. Or the ghost of respect. "You need to return to the hospital."
"Leon, please." I pressed my hands against the cold bars, the metal searing my skin. "Please let me in. Just let me talk to Aurora. She'll understand. I know she will. She held me when I cried. She called me daughter. She'll listen—she has to listen."
His jaw tightened. For a moment, I thought I saw him waver—a flicker of the man beneath the soldier.
Then he shook his head. "I have my orders, ma'am. No one is to enter. No one is to be admitted. Mr. Royce was very clear."
"Clear?" A hysterical laugh escaped me. "Clear about what? That his wife is a murderer? That I killed our baby? Is that what he told you?"
Leon said nothing. His silence was confirmation enough.
The warmth between my legs became a trickle, then a slow, steady flow. I looked down, the dark stain spreading on the light grey concrete beneath my bare feet, illuminated by the porch light. The hospital gown was already stained, the evidence impossible to ignore.
A wave of dizziness washed over me. The physical betrayal was complete.
"I'm… I'm bleeding," I whispered, more to myself than to him. The nurse's clinical warning echoed in my memory: Some bleeding is normal after the procedure. It should taper off. If it becomes heavy, if you soak through a pad in an hour, you need to come back immediately.
I'd soaked through everything. And I'd walked miles in the cold.
The world tilted. The lights of the house swirled into streaks of gold and shadow. The gates seemed to loom, then recede, then spin.
My knees buckled.
The hard, cold ground rushed up to meet me.
Inside the mansion, the silence was deafening.