The rain had slowed to a misting veil by the time Linda pulled up outside The Wellington Hospital. The front entrance glowed softly beneath the portico lights, an oasis of hush and order amid the London damp. Beth stepped out first, her boots clicking softly on the wet pavement, heart pounding beneath her coat like a trapped bird.
Inside, the reception was sterile, polite, but immovable. A woman with perfect posture and a voice like glass told them gently—but firmly—that there was no one named Leon Troy registered as a patient. That privacy was paramount. That they could not confirm, deny, or discuss anyone's presence.
Beth had expected this. She did not move.
She and Linda planted themselves on the wide leather seats near the entryway like stubborn fixtures of furniture, the silence between them growing thicker as time crawled on. Nurses walked past. A doctor glanced at them. No one asked them to leave—but no one offered help.
Half an hour passed.
Then came the unmistakable sound of laughter. High, ringing, self-possessed.
The elevator chimed, and out they came—Sanlu and Aglaya, flanked like royalty. Each had a girl on their arm, the way others might wear a coat or carry a favorite book.
Sanlu's companion was tall, with striking gold-brown skin that shimmered under the hospital's lights. Her long, honey-blonde hair curled luxuriously at her shoulders, like a tropical bloom in full riot. She wore a soft fur jacket over a slinky indigo dress and moved like a dancer on silk.
Aglaya's girl was another story entirely—shorter, curvier, full of an opulent kind of beauty. Her skin was pale, kissed by light, her long black hair falling in soft ripples to her waist. Her eyes were a kaleidoscope of sea blue—deep, shifting, unreadable—and she clung to Aglaya's arm like they had never known how to be separate.
Beth stood slowly.
Aglaya noticed them at once. Her laugh died on her lips, replaced by a look of theatrical surprise that almost read as boredom. "Oh," she said lightly, as if spotting two people from a distant memory. "The past."
Sanlu didn't look surprised at all. He smirked slightly, gave Beth a nod, and whispered something in his companion's ear that made her laugh—low and dismissive.
Linda's expression darkened. She rose next to Beth, straightening her coat. "Do you know where he is?"
Aglaya raised an eyebrow. "And if we do?"
Beth's throat was dry. "We just want to see him."
For a moment, Aglaya studied her—eyes narrowing with something too amused to be kindness, too intelligent to be cruelty. Then she glanced at Sanlu.
"Well," she said to him, voice like silk-wrapped venom, "should we let them interrupt the prince's tragic recovery?"
Sanlu shrugged. "He probably deserves it. Poor thing's been coughing blood like it's a press conference."
Aglaya looked back at Beth. "You want the truth? He's upstairs. Private floor. Room 518. But don't expect gratitude. He's in one of his moods."
And with that, she turned, her sea-eyed companion trailing beside her like a whispered legend.
Beth didn't wait.
She and Linda were already moving.
Up close, they looked almost unreal.
Sanlu, 23, had the face of a young Edward Furlong—sharp jaw, smirking mouth, eyes with just enough mischief to feel dangerous but never enough to be truly threatening. He moved like someone who'd grown up in spotlights and learned to treat fame like second skin. When he spoke, his voice was disarmingly boyish—like Justin Bieber before the fame hardened. It added an unsettling innocence to everything he said, especially when paired with the things he chose to say.
Aglaya, also 23, was a vision out of some vintage dream. She looked like Dominique Swain in Lolita, only more decadent—her beauty sharpened by wealth, fame, and the knowledge that the world was both her toy and her audience. When she laughed, it was pure Celine Dion—rich, velvety, and loud enough to turn every head in the room. She didn't walk, she floated, her red satin dress whispering against the marble as if it had its own secrets.
"Sure," Aglaya said with a lazy sweep of her hand, her seafoam eyes dancing. "You can see him."
Beth exhaled sharply, almost dizzy with the words.
Sanlu grinned, one arm slung around his golden-haired companion. "With our company, of course." He winked. "Consider us your... tragic muses."
Beth hesitated. Linda, ever more cautious, narrowed her eyes slightly.
"Why?" Linda asked, voice low.
Aglaya stepped forward until she was almost toe-to-toe with Beth. "Because, sweetheart," she purred, tilting her head, "we're curious. And he likes drama."
Sanlu nodded solemnly, as if that were a sufficient explanation for anything.
And maybe, Beth thought, in their world, it was.
"Elevator's this way," Aglaya said, already turning, her heels clicking like a countdown.
Beth glanced at Linda, her heart hammering.
They followed.
The room was dim, the kind of luxury private suite that tried too hard not to look like a hospital room—fresh orchids on the table, low lights, the faint hum of air conditioning rather than anything clinical.
Leon lay curled sideways on the long leather sofa, not the bed, his pale face buried in the folds of a woman's lap. She sat cross-legged, fingers combing absently through his hair as he groaned softly, either in pain or melodrama—it was hard to tell with him.
The woman—Clare—looked up as the door opened.
"Visitors," Aglaya announced in a voice that rang like a bell dipped in honey, eyes dancing with something not entirely friendly. Sanlu leaned against the wall beside her, playing with a cigarette he couldn't light indoors.
Leon didn't move. His body remained still, cheek pressed against Clare's thigh like it was the only solid place in the world. His hand dangled over the edge of the couch, fingers trembling slightly.
Clare was younger than Beth expected. Maybe nineteen or twenty. Her features were sharp, sculpted, framed by chestnut curls that gave her a classical, almost Renaissance look. She was barefoot, dressed in a navy turtleneck and jeans—simple, clean. There was something oddly grounded about her, the only still thing in a room full of velvet-edged chaos.
She looked directly at Beth and Linda. "It's Beth Gibson and Linda Halls," she said calmly to Leon. "You remember them, don't you?"
Leon groaned again, half muffled, his voice frayed and sarcastic: "Please let them be hallucinations."
Beth flinched.
Outside the room, through the cracked door, they could hear Gabe arguing with someone about vet-recommended pekingese dietary restrictions. He had two dogs in his arms—Marlon Brando and Clark Gable. Beth recognized them instantly.
Linda blinked, then muttered, "Of course. They'd bring the dogs."
Clare looked up at Beth, kind but unsentimental. "He's been like this all morning. Coughing, refusing his meds, throwing shade. Standard procedure."
Beth took a hesitant step forward. "He looks… worse."
Clare gave a half-smile. "That's what happens when your coping mechanism is mood lighting and denial."
At that, Leon finally spoke—muffled and dry.
"I can hear you, Clare."
Clare raised an eyebrow. "You're not deaf. Just emotionally constipated."
Leon exhaled through his nose, then finally turned his head. His eyes met Beth's.
Bleary. Bloodshot. Unmistakably green.
"…Hello, heartbreak," he said softly.
Leon's eyes shifted to Linda, and for a brief second, something like clarity passed through them—weak, but real. His voice was hoarse but sincere, a little lopsided from fever and whatever cocktail of painkillers was dulling the sharp edges of his world.
"I'm sorry," he said, "for kissing your younger sister. And for ghosting you at the graduation ball."
It was quiet for a moment.
Linda tilted her head, the corner of her mouth curling in something unreadable—half-wry, half-exhausted. She didn't look angry. Just... very, very tired.
Then Sanlu, never one to waste a silence, chimed in from the wall with his usual blunted timing:
"At least you kept it in the family."
There was a beat.
No one laughed.
Except Aglaya, who burst into a silvery giggle like it was the cleverest thing ever said. "Oh, San," she sighed, wrapping an arm around the girl with rippling black hair, "you're a menace."
Clare rolled her eyes.
Leon groaned, dragging a hand over his face. "Jesus Christ."
Beth stood there, stiff, hands clenched at her sides. It was suddenly hard to tell whether she was in a hospital or a stage. Everyone was playing their part—flirting, quipping, deflecting—but none of them, except Clare maybe, seemed remotely real.
Only Leon looked real.
Wrecked and still beautiful. Too tired to be charming. Too sick to lie.
She wanted to scream. Or cry. Or grab him and shake him.
Instead, she said quietly, "You could have just told me."
Leon closed his eyes.
"I didn't think you'd come back," he murmured. "And then I got sick. And then I got worse. And then... I couldn't remember who I was supposed to be to you anymore."
Beth's throat tightened. Linda put a hand on her arm, grounding her.
"Factually," Sanlu drawled, still leaning against the wall like a prophet in expensive streetwear, "you were never not sick."
His voice was smooth, amused, a bit like someone giving commentary on a reality show he secretly produced.
Aglaya burst out laughing, delighted. She turned to the black-haired girl beside her—whose sea-hued eyes remained unreadable—and pressed a kiss to her cheek, absolutely radiant with mischief.
"San, you savage darling," she said through her laughter, eyes glittering with indulgent cruelty. "You're wasted on the rap charts. You should write hospital pamphlets."
Clare didn't even glance up from stroking Leon's hair. "Jesus Christ, it's like a Wes Anderson film with bloodstains."
Leon gave a breathy, half-dead laugh, still not moving from Clare's lap. "Remind me to fire everyone I've ever met."
Beth, standing just a few feet away, watched the scene like someone who'd fallen into the wrong room of someone else's dream. The glitter, the sharpness, the beautiful, broken things casually sprawled across leather and linen. It was too much. Too curated. Too numb.
And in the center of it, the boy she had once imagined spending a lifetime with—sick, strange, and still flickering with that damnable charisma like a dying star.
She wanted to pull him out of it.
Or scream.
Or just... walk away before she forgot what real life ever felt like.
But she didn't move.
Because she still loved him.
Clare's fingers paused in Leon's hair, her face unreadable. She didn't speak yet.
Beth, cheeks flushed with a strange mix of determination and despair, stepped forward.
"I am now," she repeated firmly. "I'll fight for you, for us. I know what this looks like. I know who you are—what you're tangled in—but I'm not afraid of any of it."
Her voice wavered only slightly. "Who are we," she said, eyes locked on Leon, "to fight the chemistry between us?"
Sanlu smirked from the corner, tossing a glance at Aglaya as if they were judges at a bizarre romantic talent show.
"We are so cool," he said, tone dripping with amusement. "These kids playing like they're in some sixth form drama club. But…" he gave a mock-sigh, "I forgive them for being so hopelessly childish."
Aglaya tilted her head onto her companion's shoulder and giggled indulgently.
Leon, meanwhile, turned suddenly, abruptly, his hand catching Clare's wrist in agitation.
"It's not so easy," he snapped, eyes flashing with something raw. "Even if you're sure, Beth—even if I wanted to try again—it's not just me. My family would never permit it. They control everything. My press. My schedule. My health decisions. My damn face. Do you think they'd allow some unknown sixth form girl from Oxford into their carefully curated fairy tale?"
Beth didn't blink. "Then I won't be unknown for long."
For a moment, no one spoke.
Leon groaned, low and ragged, like the sound was dragged from somewhere deeper than his lungs. He sat up slightly from Clare's lap, unsteady.
"Please, Beth," he said, his voice cracking, the veneer of charm stripped clean away. "Please, just go."
The room was silent.
Aglaya tilted her head, suddenly quiet, as if even she hadn't expected that.
Beth didn't move at first. Her breath hitched, eyes wide—not with hurt, not entirely—but with something more stunned, more real. Her lips parted like she might protest, plead, or explode.
But then she caught herself.
And all she said was, "Okay."
She nodded, once, stiffly. She didn't cry. Not yet.
Without another word, she turned and walked out of the room.
Linda followed silently, her face a carefully composed mask. The door clicked shut behind them like the ending of a chapter no one had the courage to finish.