Morning arrived without mercy.
The hospital smelled of disinfectant and fear—the kind that seeps into clothes and refuses to leave. Xavier hadn't slept. He sat rigid in a chair outside Marcello's room, elbows on his knees, jaw clenched tight enough to ache.
Andrea slept sitting up, head tilted awkwardly against the wall.
Isabella watched the heart monitor rise and fall, rise and fall—each sound a fragile promise.
Lucia was still gone.
That was the cruelty of it.
You could see illness.
You could fight exhaustion.
But absence? Absence hollowed you.
The General arrived just after dawn.
No escort. No announcement.
The corridor stilled when he stepped into it.
Xavier stood immediately.
"Sir."
Alessandro D'Este studied the scene—the tired soldier, the trembling girl, the boy too young to be this still.
"This," the General said quietly, "is not collateral damage."
Xavier said nothing.
He didn't need to.
Inside the small consultation room, the truth finally breathed.
"She ordered the arrest," Alessandro said flatly. "Without my authorization."
Xavier's hands tightened. "She fabricated cause."
"Yes."
Silence pressed between them.
"Can you release Lucia?" Xavier asked.
The General didn't answer immediately.
"I can," he said at last. "And I will."
Relief hit Xavier so suddenly he had to grip the back of a chair.
"But understand this," Alessandro continued. "Once this is undone, Otilla will know she's been checked."
"I understand," Xavier replied.
"No," the General said, eyes sharpening. "You understand consequences. She understands revenge."
Lucia was released that afternoon.
She walked into the hospital pale, shaken, hands still trembling—but upright.
Isabella ran to her, sobbing openly now, the restraint finally gone.
Andrea followed, clutching her like he might lose her again if he let go.
Lucia looked at Xavier.
"You," she whispered. "You didn't have to—"
"I did," he said gently. "I always will."
Otilla heard the news an hour later.
She didn't scream this time.
She sat perfectly still, nails pressing crescents into her palms.
Her father had stepped in.
Chosen him.
So be it.
If brute force had failed…
If authority had failed…
Then she would change tactics.
Power didn't always wear uniforms.
Sometimes it wore smiles.
Otilla stood and looked at her reflection.
"Enjoy your little victory," she murmured.
"This isn't over."
That night, Xavier walked Isabella home.
The city lights flickered weakly above them.
"Everything I touch," she said quietly, "breaks."
He stopped.
Turned to her.
"No," he said firmly. "Everything you touch survives."
She looked at him, eyes glassy.
For the first time, the truth hovered between them—dangerous, undeniable.
Xavier wanted to say it.
I love you.
But some words, once spoken, could never be taken back.
So he only said—
"I'm here."
And for now…
That had to be enough.