I Left the Masquerade Pregnant

Chapter 29

The first thing I register is the beeping.

Steady, mechanical, irritatingly persistent—the kind of sound that announces you're still alive even when every cell in your body is screaming for the sweet release of unconsciousness.

My eyelids feel like they've been weighted with lead, and when I finally force them open, the fluorescent lights stab directly into my brain like tiny vengeful daggers.

Then I see her face, and I'm convinced the bullet actually killed me.

"Am I in hell?"

The words come out like sandpaper dragged across gravel, my throat raw and uncooperative, but the sentiment lands exactly where I intended.

Rowena Voss sits in the chair beside my hospital bed, silver hair immaculate as always, watching me with an expression I've never seen her wear before.

"If this were hell, the décor would be significantly more dramatic." Her mouth curves into something that might actually be a smile. "And I certainly wouldn't be wearing last season's Chanel."

I blink at her, genuinely uncertain whether the painkiller is causing hallucinations or whether Rowena Voss just made a joke. At my expense, technically, but still—a joke.

"The doctors say you're going to make a full recovery, which is fortunate, because explaining to my grandson why his mother got herself shot would have been extraordinarily inconvenient." She adjusts the collar of her jacket with practiced precision. "Though I suppose taking a bullet for my son does earn you certain considerations."

"Considerations." I try to laugh, but it comes out as more of a wheeze. "Is that Voss-speak for 'thank you'?"

"It's Voss-speak for 'I may have underestimated you.'"

She rises from the chair as movement catches my peripheral vision, and I realize we're not alone in the room.

"Victor, try not to overwhelm her with your characteristic warmth."

Victor Voss approaches the bed, his usual commanding presence somehow diminished by the sterile hospital setting.

He stands at the foot of the bed, hands clasped behind his back, and for a long moment he simply looks at me.

"You saved my son's life. That kind of loyalty is rare, and I failed to recognize it when it mattered."

"Victor, I don't need you to—"

"Let me finish."

He holds up one hand, and I fall silent despite myself.

"I accused you of sabotaging my company. I threatened to take your son. I treated you as an enemy because it was easier to blame an outsider than to acknowledge that the real threat came from within my own family."

Rowena moves to stand beside her husband, and the sight of them united in this strange moment of vulnerability is so surreal I briefly wonder if I'm still unconscious and dreaming.

"We owe you an apology, Elara." Rowena's voice carries none of its usual frost. "Both of us, for different reasons but with equal sincerity. You protected our son when we were too blind to see who was actually trying to destroy him."

"I was also sleeping with the man who was trying to destroy him, so let's not canonize me just yet."

The words slip out before I can stop them, and I watch both their faces carefully for the judgment I've come to expect.

Instead, Victor simply nods.

"You were manipulated by someone who spent years perfecting his deception. Rhys fooled all of us, myself included. The shame of that failure is mine to carry, not yours."

The door opens before I can respond, and Caspian walks in looking like he hasn't slept in days. Dark circles carve shadows under his ice-blue eyes, his hair is disheveled in ways I've never seen, and his shirt is wrinkled like he grabbed it off the floor without looking.

He stops when he sees his parents, something complicated passing between them.

"We were just leaving." Rowena gathers her bag with characteristic efficiency. "Your wife needs rest."

They file out, and then it's just us—me in this hospital bed with tubes and monitors and the lingering smell of antiseptic, him standing in the doorway like he's afraid to come closer.

"Rhys is in custody."

He crosses to the chair his mother vacated, lowering himself into it with the careful movements of someone who's been running on adrenaline for too long.

"The police picked him up trying to cross into Canada with three different passports and enough evidence on his laptop to put him away for decades. The embezzlement charges against me are being dropped, and the board has already scheduled an emergency meeting to discuss restructuring."

"That's good. That's really good, Caspian."

"I thought you were dead." His voice cracks on the last word. "When you went down, when I saw the blood spreading across your chest, I thought I'd lost you. And all I could think was that I wasted so much time being angry about things that didn't matter."

"They did matter, and I'm so sorry for all of it. For every moment I spent convincing myself that your neglect justified my betrayal."

"Stop."

He takes my hand, and his fingers are trembling.

"When I thought I was going to lose you forever, all that anger just evaporated. The only thing that mattered was that you might die, and I'd never get the chance to tell you that I choose you."

"I don't deserve that kind of forgiveness."

"You threw yourself in front of a bullet for me, Elara. I think we're past keeping score."

He brings my hand to his lips, pressing a kiss against my knuckles.

"I asked you once if you were willing to try. You said you weren't ready to make that choice. But I'm asking again: are you willing to try?"

The answer rises up from somewhere deep.

"I'm willing."

And this time, I mean it.

The door bursts open with the subtlety of a grenade, and Tessa storms in clutching a balloon bouquet and wearing an expression that suggests she has opinions about everyone in this room.

"Oh good, you're conscious. I was starting to think I'd have to plan a funeral, and let me tell you, black is not my color."

She dumps the balloons in the corner and rounds on both of us.

"You two are going to need so much therapy. Like, decades of therapy. I'm talking a small fortune in psychiatric bills."

Caspian actually laughs—a real laugh, surprised out of him.

I try to join in, but the movement sends fire radiating through my chest, and the laugh transforms into a grimace.

"Easy, easy." Tessa's expression softens as she moves to my other side. "The doctor said no strenuous activity for at least six weeks, and I'm pretty sure laughing at my jokes counts as strenuous."

"Everything about you is strenuous," I manage, but I'm smiling through the pain.

For the first time in longer than I can remember, I almost feel happy.