He didn’t respond.
But something had changed.
I could feel it.
---
The Grant estate sat beyond the city like a monument to privacy — glass, steel, silence. Private ICU wing. Private helipad. Private grief sealed behind biometric locks.
Clara Grant greeted me in a cream suit that looked like it had never known a wrinkle.
“You came quickly,” she said.
“Julian is my responsibility now,” I replied.
She studied me for a long second before opening the door to the ICU room.
Julian Grant lay motionless beneath soft lighting, machines whispering in rhythms that felt too calm to belong to a human being. His face was pale, beautiful, untouched by effort. If I hadn’t known better, I might have believed he was sleeping.
“This is not a romance,” Clara said quietly.
“I know.”
“It’s not even a marriage in the traditional sense.”
“I understand.”
She turned to face me. “Then what are you hoping for?”
I met her gaze. “Control.”
Something in her eyes flickered.
---
That night, back in my childhood bedroom — the one that had never quite been mine — I lay awake staring at the ceiling, listening to rain against the window.
My phone buzzed once.
Ethan: You’re awake, aren’t you?
I stared at the screen.