This time, it was a waiting room for grief.
Julian’s ICU wing was sealed behind biometric doors that opened only after Clara’s retina scan. Ethan stayed just outside, close enough to intervene, far enough to be irrelevant.
“You don’t have to go in yet,” he said softly.
I glanced back at him. “Do you think it would make a difference if I waited?”
He didn’t answer.
The door slid open with a muted sigh.
The room smelled faintly of antiseptic and ozone. Screens flickered with vitals that meant nothing to me. Julian lay in the center, surrounded by equipment that whispered around his stillness like a jury deliberating his right to exist.
He was younger than I remembered.
Not the mythic heir who once made the business pages look like fashion spreads, but a man stripped of momentum. His lashes were dark against his skin. His lips were slightly parted, as if he had been about to speak when the world took that privilege away.
“This is where he’s been for the last six months,” Clara said quietly. “The board hasn’t visited in weeks.”
“Because he’s inconvenient,” I replied.
“Because he isn’t profitable.”
We stood there in silence. I didn’t reach for him. I didn’t speak his name.