Chapter Thirty-Two: The Vigil
The world after the fall had shrunk to a single, suffocating sphere: the four walls of the hospital suite, the rhythmic complaints of machines, and the two men who hovered over me like sentinels. Outside it, life moved with indifference. Inside, every breath, every heartbeat, every shiver was accounted for.
Julian established a permanent vigil. He did not leave. He was there when the physiotherapist forced me to take my first agonizing steps, his arm a firm, unyielding support. Every small motion—a lift of my leg, a shift in balance—was measured and guided. He whispered encouragements I could barely hear, words that were soft but had the weight of chains.
He was there when the psychiatrist visited, a kind, gentle woman with soft eyes, her voice low and careful. She asked about my dreams. Julian answered for me, shaping my story before I could:
"She's been under tremendous strain. The wedding planning, the pressure of the family name. It's taken a toll on her physically and emotionally."
I understood immediately. He was crafting a narrative, framing me as delicate and overburdened, editing out the truth: that my mind had attempted to escape entirely, that I had nearly stopped existing, that my heart was a weaponed ruin. He was containment in a human form, the polite jailor of my fragile reality.
He read to me from books he thought might distract me, adjusting my pillows when the brace made my body tense, speaking softly of future vacations and seasides. "We'll go to the coast," he whispered one evening, his fingers brushing mine when he arranged the blanket over my legs. "You need air. You need peace."
It was kindness. It was love, perhaps, in a clinical, possessive form. And it was a net—a soft, relentless net gathering me in, holding me in place, ensuring I would not vanish again.
But his eyes had changed. That steady, polite concern had transformed into something else entirely: careful, meticulous observation. He was studying me. Diagnosing me. He cataloged my weaknesses, my frayed edges, the places my body refused to obey, and in those moments, I felt less like a person and more like a case study. The fall had been data, the hospital a laboratory, and I the specimen.
Lucas's visits were different—brief, brutal, and coldly efficient. His presence was a storm contained in a teacup, leaving ripples that shook the world around me.
"The story is a vertigo episode," he snapped one morning, leafing through a set of medical charts. "Reaction to medication. You will stick to it. No deviation. No dramatics. Do you understand?"
I nodded mutely, my voice caught in my throat, suppressed beneath painkillers and exhaustion. My silence, the only shred of autonomy I still possessed, was interpreted as compliance. Each nod was cataloged, each flicker of eyelash noted, every tremor or flinch meticulously recorded.
Sleep, when it came, was the only escape. The darkness was forgiving, the unconsciousness a quiet reprieve from the constant scrutiny of two men who had made me both their responsibility and their property. But even there, the shadows reached me.
Not Julian. Rowan.
In dreams, he returned—not cruel, not calculating, not the monster who had dissected my heart. He was the man I had loved at first sight, at first stolen glance—the one who had existed in the peripheries of lecture halls, whose presence had felt like a secret tether to reality. In dreams, he did not speak, and I could not form the words. But his eyes were steady, knowing, dark, and familiar. They were a silent sanctuary amid the chaos.
I would wake with cheeks wet from tears I hadn't realized I had shed, a deep, aching hollow in my chest as though the ghost of him had brushed against my soul and left a wound behind.
It was during one of these rare quiet afternoons—Julian away on a business call, Lucas absent from the horizon—that another presence entered the room. One that pierced the sterile, suffocating air.
Sophia.
Her energy was muted, like a candle in a draft. The vibrant light I remembered was dimmed by concern, grief, and weariness. She carried a small bouquet of daisies, humble, unassuming—nothing like the moon lilies that had once marked our shared histories.
"Aira," she whispered, her voice thick, fragile, and afraid.
I couldn't manage a smile. I couldn't force my lips to betray even the faintest relief. I merely looked at her—the one tether to the life I had known before this gilded prison.
She came closer, setting the flowers beside me, her hands trembling slightly. She didn't offer platitudes or easy comforts. Her gaze swept over the braces, the bandages, the stark white walls, and rested on me—not the polished, controlled product, but the girl who had been nearly erased.
"I tried to come sooner," she admitted, voice low. "They wouldn't let me. Lucas… he has a list."
I gave a small, pained nod.
Her fingers hovered for a moment before brushing the back of my bandaged hand, an acknowledgment of shared understanding. "I don't know what happened," she said, softer now, almost to herself. "But I know your heart… your life… was tampered with. And I know this family…" She trailed off, voice cracking. "…is a prison."
Her words unlocked something inside me—a shard of grief, anger, relief, all tangled together. One hot, unbidden tear slid down my temple.
"He… he told me," I rasped, voice foreign from disuse. "About Lyanna. About the revenge."
Sophia paled, horror sharpening her features before it morphed into a bitter, shared fury. "He used her memory… for that? That's not love. That's sickness. And to leave you… trapped?"
We sat together in quiet acknowledgment, the shared understanding of damage, manipulation, and betrayal heavy between us.
Her gaze hardened, sharp, urgent. "Aira, listen to me. You cannot let them bury you alive. This marriage… it's a prettier coffin."
Before I could respond, Julian returned. The pleasant, curated mask slipped seamlessly into place, but his eyes—sharp, calculating—fell on Sophia immediately.
"Sophia," he said smoothly. "How kind of you to visit. But the doctor recommended minimal stimulation."
Sophia straightened, a silent refusal in her posture. She pressed one last, fierce squeeze to my hand. A squeeze that spoke volumes. Remember.
"Get well, Aira," she said aloud, for Julian's benefit. Then, quieter, as if she knew I might be the only one listening: "Don't disappear."
And she left. With her exit, the only real air in the room seemed to vanish. Julian moved to the window, back turned to me, speaking lightly of her visit, of her drama, of the minor disruption she caused.
I closed my eyes. The warmth of Sophia's hand lingered, ephemeral yet potent. The dreams of Rowan's presence, steady and silent, combined with Sophia's warning. I felt the walls shrink, the cage contract. Julian's vigilance, Lucas's cold precision, the lingering ghost of the love that had never been mine—they pressed in on every side.
And I understood.
They were burying me alive.
And for now, I lay here, broken, tethered, and compliant. But Sophia's hand had reminded me: even a body in a cage can feel the air shift. Even a ghost in a gilded prison can remember freedom.
Even here, I had not yet disappeared.