Chapter Sixty
● The Return
Consciousness returned like a blade.
Slow at first—just awareness of breath, of heartbeat, of existing when I shouldn't. Then faster—pain, memory, the weight of everything I'd tried to escape.
I was on the bed.
The sheets were cool against my skin. My hair was damp, spread across the pillow like dark weeds. Someone had changed my clothes—the wet nightgown gone, replaced by something soft and dry. Mrs. O'Malley, probably. She was the only one who touched me with gentleness.
The aphrodisiac still hummed in my veins.
A dull, persistent heat that nothing could quench. I'd read about it somewhere—how some compounds lingered for days, burning slowly, refusing to fade. Three days, maybe. Three days of this unwanted fire, this body betraying me with needs I didn't want to feel.
I didn't care.
The fire meant nothing compared to the cold in my chest.
I stared at the ceiling and thought about the sink. The water. The moment when everything started to go dark.
I regretted it.
Not the attempt.
The survival.
Twice now. Twice I had reached for oblivion, and twice it had slipped through my fingers. The stairs. The sink. Two failures. Two returns to a life I didn't want.
You shouldn't have saved me.
The words formed in my mind, aimed at whoever had pulled me back. At Rowan, who had broken down the door. At fate, which kept refusing to release me.
You shouldn't have.
---
● The Door
It opened.
I didn't turn my head. Didn't need to. I knew his footsteps, his presence, the way the air changed when he entered a room.
Rowan.
He crossed to the bed and stood looking down at me. I felt his gaze like a weight—heavy, assessing, unreadable.
"You're awake."
I said nothing.
"The doctor will come in an hour. To check your lungs. Make sure there's no damage."
Still nothing.
A pause. Then—
"Why?"
The question was quiet. Almost gentle. It surprised me enough to turn my head, to meet his eyes for the first time.
He looked different.
Exhausted, yes. The shadows under his eyes were deeper, his jaw shadowed with stubble he never usually allowed. But there was something else—something I couldn't name.
"Why what?"
"Why did you do it?"
I stared at him for a long moment. Then I laughed—a broken, hollow sound.
"You're asking me why?"
"Yes."
I sat up slowly, the sheets pooling around my waist. The aphrodisiac stirred with the movement, heat flickering through my veins, but I ignored it.
"You want a list? Should I start with the fall that nearly killed me? The hospital where I woke up alone? The marriage you built as revenge? The night you took what you wanted and left me bleeding? The video that showed the world my shame while you managed crisis calls?"
His jaw tightened with each word.
"Or maybe I should start earlier. Maybe I should start with my mother dying and no one holding me. With six years old and learning that crying brought no one. With a lifetime of being invisible, of being nothing, of being so utterly alone that I built fantasies just to stay warm."
My voice cracked.
"You want to know why? Because I'm tired. I've been tired my whole life. And you—" I stopped, swallowing hard. "You were supposed to be different. You were supposed to see me. And instead, you used me. You broke me. And when I needed you most, you walked away."
The words hung between us.
He didn't move. Didn't speak.
Just stood there, carved from stone, while I bled my truth across the sheets.
---
● The Words
Finally—finally—he spoke.
"You shouldn't have done it."
I waited for more. For anything. For the words I'd been starving for my whole life.
I can't lose you.
I love you.
I'm sorry.
Anything.
But it was only hope.
"You can't die in my house."
The words landed like stones.
I stared at him, waiting for the follow-up, for the explanation, for anything that would soften the blow.
Nothing came.
He just stood there, looking at me with those dark, unreadable eyes, and let the silence stretch.
"You can't die in my house," he repeated. "Do you understand?"
Understanding came slowly.
Coldly.
It wasn't about me. It was never about me.
If I died here—if Rowan Royce's wife, a Grace daughter, was found dead in his penthouse—the rumors would never stop. People would say he killed me. Revenge for Lyanna. The final move in a war between families.
It would destroy him.
Destroy his reputation. His business. His family's name.
That's what he cared about.
Not me.
Him.
I nodded slowly, the movement mechanical, disconnected from the rest of me.
"I see."
He frowned slightly. "Aira—"
"I understand now." My voice was flat. Empty. "You're not afraid of losing me. You're afraid of what people will think if I'm gone."
"That's not—"
"It is." I cut him off, the words like ice. "You made it very clear. I can't die in your house. It would be dangerous for your family reputation."
He opened his mouth, but I didn't let him speak.
"Don't worry." I lay back down, turning away from him, facing the window and the city beyond. "I won't die here. I'll find somewhere else."
The silence behind me was absolute.
I closed my eyes.
"Maybe a car accident," I said quietly. "No one would suspect you then. Just an accident. Tragic. Unavoidable. Your reputation stays intact."
"Aira—"
"Goodnight, Rowan."
I heard him move. Heard him step closer, then stop. Heard the breath he took, as if he might say something—something real, something that mattered.
Nothing came.
The door closed.
I was alone again.
The aphrodisiac still burned. The cold in my chest was colder. And somewhere in the hollow space where hope used to live, something finally went still.
He didn't love me.
He never would.
And I was done hoping.
---
● The Silence
Hours passed.
Or minutes.
I couldn't tell anymore.
The city glittered beyond the window, indifferent and vast. Somewhere out there, people lived their ordinary lives—laughing, loving, existing without this weight.
I thought about the car accident.
How easy it would be. A moment of lost control. A swerve. A tree or a bridge or another vehicle. Quick. Clean. Final.
No one would suspect Rowan.
No one would connect it to him.
Just a tragedy. Just another sad story in a city full of them.
The plan settled into my mind like a stone dropping into still water. It didn't ripple. It just sank, heavy and permanent, waiting for me to act.
I would wait.
I would be patient.
I would smile and eat and take my medication and perform the role of the surviving wife.
And then, when the time was right—
I would find somewhere else.
Somewhere safe for his reputation.
Somewhere far from this house.
Somewhere I could finally, finally rest.