Zareal's fingers tightened on the curtain, and then she pulled it back.
The fabric slid along the track with a soft scraping sound, revealing the space behind it. There was another hospital bed, medical equipment clustered around it. and there, lying against white pillows, was a woman.
Who was unconscious. a neck brace held her head immobile, the pale foam stark against her skin. Her left wrist was wrapped in a splint, elevated on a pillow.
An IV line ran into her arm, the clear fluid dripping at measured intervals, her dark hair spread across the pillow, framing a face that was delicate even in unconsciousness. To be honest, she was beautiful.
Even with bruises forming along her jawline, and with the oxygen monitor clipped to her finger, she was still perfect in a way that made something twist in Zareal's chest.
Her skin was pale, and her cheekbones were high. she was graced with a kind of face that belonged in magazines, not emergency rooms.
Zareal stared at her, trying to process what she was seeing. Trying to understand why this woman was in Ranulf's hospital room, why she was behind a privacy curtain and why david had brought medication for her.
And while zareal was still busy examining, ranulf just walks past her to the bed where the woman lied, setting down the bag of medication by the bed.
Without hesitation, "Who is she?" Zareal's voice came out quiet.
Ranulf didn't answer immediately, he stood with his hand now resting on the rail, not touching her, just present.
Zareal's mind was already racing, the name she had in mind but didn't want to say out loud "is she—". "Aveline"... he finally spoke, but chose to speak over her. his voice was flat.
The name landed in the space between them.
The name zareal had heard in phone calls ranulf took in other rooms. Which had haunted the edges of her marriage for twelve months, always present but never confirmed.
Aveline Ravenscroft, the daughter of the oil magnate Edmund Ravenscroft. whose family's energy empire had built half the refineries along the eastern coast.
So this was her.
In twelve months of marriage, Zareal had never seen her, had never been introduced, nor crossed paths at any Sterling event or business dinner.
Aveline existed in the spaces Zareal couldn't. The phone calls he answered and then left the room.
She had been a name, a perfume that sometimes clung to Ranulf's jacket, and a shadow that moved just outside Zareal's line of sight.
Now, she had a face.
Zareal's eyes moved from aveline to ranulf. He hadn't looked at her when he said the name, nor hadn't turned away from the bed.
His posture was different here than it had been moments ago when zareal had entered, The dismissiveness was gone. The coldness had softened into something else.
Perhaps concern.
His jaw was tight and his shoulders tense. He watched the monitors like he was willing them to show better numbers as his fingers gripped the bed rail just slightly too hard.
This was what caring looked like on him, and zareal had never seen it directed at her.
Not when she had limped through the Sterling estate on her bad hip, trying not to slow anyone down.
Not when she had asked him, three weeks ago, if he would come to the vow renewal ceremony and he had said yes without looking up from his paperwork.
But here he was, standing beside Aveline's bed with the kind of focused attention Zareal had spent a year trying to earn.
The timeline clicked into place with brutal clarity. the accident had happened at four seventeen or so, and the ceremony started at five.
He had never been planning to come, he had read Zareal's message asking if he was on his way and ignored it because he was already exactly where he wanted to be.
In a car with Aveline Ravenscroft.
Zareal's grip on her cane suddenly faltered, the rubber tip slipped slightly on the tile floor.
She tried to steady herself, but her hip was screaming now. The pain that had been building all evening finally crested, radiating up through her spine and down through her knee.
She had been on her feet too long, and her body seemed like it was done, so her legs then gave out.
The cane clattered to the floor, the sound too loud in the quiet room. Zareal's knees buckled, and she felt herself dropping, her hands reaching for something to catch herself onto but finding only air.
David quickly caught her before she hit the ground.
His hands gripped her arms, steadying her weight. "Mrs zareal"... David said, his voice shaky and uneven.
Zareal's vision blurred at the edges and she could hear her own breathing, which was fast, and too shallow. david was saying something, but the words didn't register.
All she could focus on was the fact that she was on the floor of a hospital room, being held up by her husband's assistant, while her husband stood three feet away and didn't move.
Ranulf just glanced over, his eyes met hers for a fraction of a second before looking away.
A glance, a moment of acknowledgment then back to the woman in the bed.
David's grip tightened slightly. "Should I call a nurse?"
Zareal shook her head. The movement made the room tilt slightly, but she forced herself to focus. "I'm fine."
She wasn't fine. Her hip felt like it was splitting apart, and her chest was too tight. The fluorescent lights overhead were too bright, now making everything sharp and overexposed.
But she said it anyway. Because what else was there to say?
David helped her stand, his hands still on her arms until she was steady. Her cane was on the floor somewhere. she didn't reach for it, didn't trust her hands not to shake.
And then, there were footsteps in the hallway, heels clicking against tile in a rhythm that was too measured to be a nurse, it sounded too purposeful.
And then the door swung open instantly.
Vespera stepped through.
She now wore a dark coat over her gown, her hair perfectly in place despite the late hour. Her eyes immediately swept the room, taking in the scene with practiced efficiency.
Zareal rising from the floor, david's hands still steadying her, ranulf by the curtained bed and the woman lying unconscious behind the thin blue fabric.
Her expression didn't change, there was no surprise, nor concern, just calculation.
"Zareal, what's going on here?." Her voice was measured, still carrying a bit of irritation.
But zareal couldn't find words, she couldn't form a response that wouldn't crack apart in her throat.
And then suddenly, vespera's gaze dropped dead on her son, ranulf.