Victoria leaned down and whispered something in his ear.
Then she smoothed his hair, closed the case, and called for the nurse as if nothing had happened.
Isabella didn’t sleep that night.
The next morning, she found a tiny stain on Ethan’s pillow.
Blood.
Exactly where he always touched his head.
Days passed.
The pain worsened.
The doctors insisted it was psychological.
Adrian believed them.
Because believing them was easier than admitting no one understood what was happening to his son.
Until the storm came.
Thunder shook the mansion.
Power flickered.
And for the first time, Ethan was left alone with Isabella during one of his attacks.
He was barely conscious.
“The thorn…” he whispered.
“Show me,” she said.
With trembling fingers, he pointed to the crown of his head.
Isabella parted his hair.
At first, nothing.
Then—
She felt it.
A tiny, hard point beneath the skin.
Her heart froze.
She grabbed sterile forceps, her hands steady despite the storm inside her chest.
“This will hurt once,” she whispered. “Then it will stop.”
Ethan nodded weakly.
She pulled.
A thin, black needle slid free.
Ethan screamed—
Then suddenly—
Stopped.
Silence filled the room.
His body relaxed.
His breathing slowed.