Page 22 of The Vows He Buried
The next hour was a frantic blur. I tore off the last vestiges of the gala—the diamond daggers, the couture gown, the carefully applied makeup. I scrubbed my face until my skin was raw, erasing the warrior queen until only the real Savannah was left.I threw on the first things I could find: a pair of soft, worn jeans, a gray cashmere sweater, and a pair of flat shoes. The armor was gone. I was just me, and I was terrified.
I called the car service Jasper kept on retainer for me, my voice shaking as I gave the address for the private hospital in Greenwich where they were treating my father. The ride through the sleeping city was a journey through my own personal hell. Every traffic light seemed to take an eternity. The glittering skyline, which had seemed like a conquered kingdom just hours before, now felt alien and mocking.
When I finally burst through the doors of the hospital’s ICU waiting room, I found Jasper slumped in a chair, his head in his hands. He looked up as I entered, his eyes red-rimmed and hollow. He didn’t need to say anything. I saw the devastation on his face.
He led me to the room. The sterile, antiseptic smell of the ICU was a sharp assault on my senses. The only sound was the rhythmic, mechanical whoosh and beep of the machines that were keeping my father alive.
He lay in the bed, looking smaller and more fragile than I had ever seen him. A web of tubes and wires connected him to the blinking, pulsing machines that surrounded him. His face, usually so full of life and intelligence, was slack and pale. This was not the titan who had built an empire. This was just a man, fighting for his life.
I sank into the chair beside his bed, my legs giving out from under me. Jasper stood behind me, his hand a heavy weight on my shoulder, before he murmured something about getting coffee and retreated, giving me a moment alone.
I took my father’s hand. It was warm, but limp, unresponsive in mine. And for the first time since I had walked out of the Vale mansion, for the first time since I had decided to burn their world to the ground, I cried.
The tears were not silent or dignified. They were a raw, ragged storm of grief, pouring out of me in great, shuddering sobs. I laid my head on the edge of his bed, my shoulders shaking, and let it all out. The grief for my father. The grief for my lost child. The grief for the woman I had been and the love I had lost. The sheer, crushing weight of it all finally broke through the armor of my rage.
“Dad,” I whispered through the tears, my voice choked and broken. “Please don’t leave me. Not yet. I just got back. I need you to see me. I need you to see that I’m okay. I’m fighting. Just like you taught me.”
I told him everything, the words tumbling out in a hushed, desperate torrent. I told him about the annulment, about taking back the company, about the evidence I had. I told him about the red dress and the gala. I was trying to show him I was strong, trying to will him back with the force of my own fight.
“I’m going to win, Dad,” I sobbed, clutching his hand. “I’m going to make them pay for everything. I just… I just need you to wake up and see it. Please, Dad. Wake up.”
But he didn’t move. The only response was the steady, relentless beeping of the heart monitor.
I don’t know how long I sat there, lost in my grief. Time had ceased to have meaning. It was just me, my father, and the cold, sterile hum of the machines.
I was so lost in my own world that I didn’t notice the presence in the doorway until a shadow fell over me. I looked up, my eyes blurry with tears, expecting to see Jasper with a cup of coffee.
It was Lucian Thorne.
He stood there, a silent, dark figure against the harsh fluorescent light of the hallway. He was no longer in his tuxedo. He was dressed in a pair of dark trousers and a black cashmere sweater that mirrored my own, as if we were two sides of the same coin. How had he known I was here? His surveillance? Had Jasper called him? It didn’t matter. He was here.
My first instinct was embarrassment. He was seeing me like this—stripped bare of all my power and poise, my face swollen and blotchy from crying, my soul laid open and raw. He had seen the dragon. Now he was seeing the terrified girl cowering in the ashes.
He didn’t say a word. He didn’t offer a pitying smile or empty platitudes like “he’s in a better place” or “he’s a fighter.” His storm-gray eyes were unreadable, but they held no judgment. He simply walked into the room, his presence a quiet, grounding force.
He placed a steaming paper cup of coffee on the small table beside me. Then, he reached into the pocket of his coat and pulled out a folded, pristine white handkerchief. He held it out to me.
I took it, my fingers brushing against his. His skin was warm. The handkerchief was made of soft, fine linen. I used it to wipe the tears from my face, a small, simple gesture of kindness that felt more profound than any grand declaration.
He didn’t leave. He pulled up another chair from the corner of the room and sat down beside me. Not too close, but not too far. He just sat, in silence. He didn’t try to talk to me, didn’t try to comfort me. He just shared the silence, shared the sterile, beeping space. He bore witness to my grief without trying to fix it.
It was the most comforting thing anyone had ever done for me.
With him there, a strange calm began to settle over me. The ragged sobs subsided into a quiet sorrow. His silent, unwavering presence was an anchor. He wasn’t demanding anything of me. He wasn’t judging me. He was just… there. A quiet guardian in the darkest hour of my night.
We sat like that for what felt like an eternity, two dark-clad figures keeping vigil in the heart of a hospital, the silence between us more intimate than any conversation.
Finally, as the first, pale hints of dawn began to streak the sky outside the window, he stirred. He stood up, his movements fluid and silent. I thought he was leaving.
He walked to my father’s bedside and stood for a moment, looking down at him. There was a strange look on his face, a flicker of something I couldn’t decipher. Respect? Regret?
He turned back to me. “Your father is a formidable man,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “The world is a lesser place without his mind at work in it.”
It was a simple, honest statement. And it meant more to me than a thousand flowery condolences.
He started for the door, then paused at the threshold, turning back to look at me one last time. I was still sitting there, a broken queen on a plastic hospital chair, clutching his handkerchief.
“Don’t burn everything down, Savannah,” he said, his voice soft, but with an edge of warning. His gaze was intense, piercing. “Some things… might still be worth saving.”
