Chapter 8

Magnus leaned back in his study’s leather chair, the soft creak of the leather barely audible over the crackle of the fire in the hearth. He swirled the whiskey in his glass with slow, deliberate movements, the amber liquid glinting under the light of the chandelier. Across from him, Mark sat hunched on the couch, his normally confident demeanor replaced with a defeated slump.

Magnus broke the silence. "Do you care for a drink?"

Mark’s lips twitched into a ghost of a smile. "Brandy, if you’ve got it," he said, his voice casual, though his sunken eyes betrayed him.

Magnus raised a brow, his gaze sharp. "Your doctor said no alcohol, especially after the cirrhosis scare." Without waiting for a reply, Magnus placed a chilled bottle of sparkling water on the coffee table.

Mark gave a dismissive wave, leaning back with a heavy sigh. "Doctors always have something to say. Alcohol’s the only thing keeping me sane these days. Nelly’s taken the kids, and the courts keep pushing me further out of their lives."

Magnus leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "You lost them because of this," he said, gesturing toward the unopened bottle of water. "And you’re not going to get them back unless you quit."

Mark’s laugh was hollow, a bitter sound that echoed in the room. "Quit? You think I haven’t tried? Rehab, therapy—I’ve done it all, Magnus. But the guilt...the loneliness, it always pulls me back." He rubbed his temples, his fingers digging into his scalp. "You don’t get it. You’ve never had kids. You don’t know what it’s like to see their faces every time you close your eyes and know you’ve failed them."

Magnus studied his friend, the weight of his words sinking in. He and Mark had been friends since childhood, their bond forged through years of shared privilege and responsibility as heirs to powerful families. Yet, seeing Mark now—broken and adrift—made Magnus wonder how far any man could fall before hitting rock bottom.

"You can fix this," Magnus said after a pause. "You just have to want it enough. Check into rehab again. I’ll help with the company while you’re gone."

Mark shook his head, a wry smile playing on his lips. "And leave everything in your hands? No offense, but I’d rather not. Besides, I don’t think fixing myself is going to fix my family."

Magnus sighed, leaning back in his chair. He knew better than to argue when Mark got like this. Instead, he decided to shift the conversation. "You said you had something important to tell me. What is it?"

Mark hesitated, his fingers tapping rhythmically against his thigh. Finally, he met Magnus’s gaze. "It’s about Vivienne," he said, his tone carefully neutral.

Magnus froze. The name hit him like a punch to the gut. "Vivienne?" he repeated, his voice low, almost hesitant.

Mark nodded. "She’s back in America."

Magnus’s grip on his glass tightened. "When?"

"A couple of weeks ago," Mark replied. "Daniel told me. Said he spotted her downtown, near the hospital."

Magnus’s mind raced. He hadn’t seen Vivienne in years, not since their marriage had crumbled under the weight of betrayal and misunderstanding. The memories were still raw, the scars barely healed.

"Are you going to reach out to her?" Mark asked, his tone cautious.

Magnus shook his head, though he wasn’t entirely sure of the answer himself. "What would I even say? ‘Sorry for ruining your life’? Somehow, I don’t think she’s interested in hearing that."

Mark leaned forward, his expression serious. "You’ve got a second chance, Magnus. Don’t waste it. But tread carefully. You broke her once. Don’t let history repeat itself."

Before Magnus could respond, his phone buzzed on the table. He glanced at the screen and frowned. His grandmother’s number.

"Excuse me," Magnus muttered, picking up the call. "Hello?"

"Boss," came the familiar voice of Kelvin, his grandmother’s trusted butler. Magnus sat up straighter, his heart sinking. Kelvin never called unless it was serious.

"What’s wrong?" Magnus demanded, his tone sharp.

"It’s your grandmother," Kelvin said, his voice grave. "She collapsed a few minutes ago. The driver’s taken her to Tender Care Hospital."

Magnus’s stomach dropped. "I’m on my way," he said, already grabbing his keys. He turned to Mark. "We’ll talk later."

Mark nodded, his concern evident, but he didn’t press further.

Magnus drove to the hospital with a single-minded focus, his thoughts racing. His grandmother had been his anchor, the one person who had always believed in him, even when he doubted himself. The thought of losing her was unbearable.

When he arrived, the sterile scent of the hospital hit him like a wall. A nurse directed him to his grandmother’s private room, where she lay unconscious, her frail body connected to machines that beeped steadily. Magnus approached her bedside, his chest tightening at the sight of her.

"I’m here, Grandma," he whispered, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

A soft knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts. "Come in," Magnus said, his voice steady despite the turmoil inside him.

The door opened, and time seemed to freeze.

Vivienne.

She stepped into the room, her white coat pristine, her expression calm and professional. Yet, to Magnus, it felt as though the air had been sucked out of the room.

"She’s stable for now," Vivienne said, her tone clinical as she scanned his grandmother’s chart.

"Vivienne," Magnus began, his voice soft, almost reverent.

She didn’t look at him. "I’ll be back to check on her later," she said, her words cold and detached. She turned to leave, but Magnus couldn’t let her go—not like this.

"Wait," he said, stepping forward and gently grabbing her arm.

Vivienne spun around, her eyes flashing with anger. "Don’t touch me," she snapped, her voice low but sharp.

Magnus released her immediately. "I’m sorry," he said quickly. "I didn’t mean to—"

"Save it," Vivienne cut him off, her gaze piercing. "Stay out of my way, Magnus. I’m here for my patients, not to rehash the past."

And with that, she was gone, leaving Magnus standing in the middle of the room, his mind a whirlwind of emotions.

He slumped into a chair, a bitter chuckle escaping his lips. "She hates me," he murmured, staring at the door she had walked through.

Yet, as he replayed the encounter in his mind, he couldn’t help but feel a flicker of something deeper beneath her anger. It wasn’t just hate—it was pain.

And pain, Magnus realized, was something he could work with.

This wasn’t the end. It was only the beginning.