Years ago, grief had hardened him. Losing his wife during childbirth had broken something deep within him. He had loved her fiercely, and her death split his world in two. Watching Elara suffer reopened wounds he thought time had buried.
So Julian did what he had always done.
He worked.
He vanished into meetings, deals, late-night calls. He told himself that money could solve this—that somewhere, someone had the answer, if only he pushed harder.
Meanwhile, at home, Elara continued to fade.
Her room was spotless, maintained meticulously by staff. Curtains filtered the light just enough. The air smelled faintly of antiseptic and medicine. Machines beeped softly in the corners, tracking vitals that never quite stabilized.
Elara rarely smiled now. Rarely spoke. Mostly, she stared into space, eyes unfocused, as if listening to something no one else could hear. At night, she woke trembling, clutching the sheets, breath uneven. The nurses called it anxiety.
But it felt like more.
Something deeper.
Then came Mara Quinn.