Charlotte's collapse changed everything.
To Lucas, it was no longer something he could dismiss as emotion or exaggeration. It was real, a physical crisis that demanded action.
He cancelled his international trips. He handed off urgent responsibilities. For the first time since he had built his company, he started coming home before midnight.
He didn't do any of it smoothly.
His efforts were awkward and unsure, like someone trying to operate a machine without instructions.
He told the chef to prepare Charlotte's favorite meals , dishes she hadn't asked for in years.
He sat with her at the long dining table, the silence no longer empty but tight with his unease.
He tried to talk, his words stiff and unnatural.
"The market was unstable today," he would say, then pause and correct himself.
"…Did you have a good day?"
Charlotte would nod. Nothing more.
She ate, but barely. She complied, but she didn't connect. She was present, but distant. The ghost remained a ghost.
His frustration grew.
He was applying logic to something logic couldn't fix. He was treating her pain like a problem to be managed. He was there. He was providing care. He was watching closely.
Why wasn't it working?
Because the solution lived in the one place he still refused to go.
Emotion.
He felt pulled in opposite directions. Some days, the sight of her being quiet and thin body triggered a powerful urge to comfort her.
He would start to reach across the table, his fingers moving without thought.
Then his father's voice would surface, sharp and familiar.
Weakness. Liability. Distraction.
He would pull his hand back as if burned, his face settling into its old mask.
The turning point came one evening, a week after her collapse.
He found her on the balcony, wrapped in a cashmere throw, staring at the city lights below. She wasn't near the edge, but the sight of her there still made his chest tighten.
He stepped outside, the night air cold against his skin. They stood side by side in silence, two people sharing space but not warmth.
"You should come inside," he said finally.
"It's cold."
She didn't respond.
Her eyes stayed fixed on the horizon, her face marked by a quiet, devastating loneliness.
Then he saw it.
A single tear slid down her cheek.
It wasn't dramatic. It wasn't meant to be seen. It was simply there a small, helpless sign of pain that had settled too deeply to fight anymore.
That tear did what years of arguments and pleas had not.
It broke him.
In that moment, he wasn't an executive or a strategist. He was just a man watching the woman he loved fall apart. The internal struggle stopped.
The fear vanished.
Only the need to protect her remained.
He stepped behind her, unsure, awkward. He hesitated, then wrapped his arms around her, pulling her back against his chest.
It was the first time he had held her in years.
The embrace was stiff and imperfect. His body didn't know what to do.
Hers tensed in surprise. It wasn't graceful or romantic. It was desperate, an instinctive act from someone who finally understood what was at stake.
He rested his chin against her head. Her scent of soft, faintly floral filled his senses.
He said nothing. Words still failed him.
His heart pounded, fear and relief tangled together.
After a long moment, her body softened just slightly. A quiet, shaking breath left her lips.
It wasn't forgiveness.
It wasn't healing.
But it was something.
He held her tighter, a silent promise carried in the cold night air. He didn't know how to fix what he had broken.
But he knew, with absolute certainty, that he could no longer stand aside and do nothing.