Chapter 156

Chapter 156
Eleanor's POV

"His family is coming." I turned to face her, saw her flinch at whatever she saw in my expression. "The hospital contacted them. I need to... I need to be here when they arrive."

Chloe exchanged a look with Blake, some silent communication passing between them.

"If you need anything," Chloe said carefully. "Anything at all—you call us immediately. Promise?"

I nodded, managed what might have been a smile. "Promise."

Blake approached, hands in his pockets, looking uncharacteristically uncertain. "We'll come back tomorrow. First thing."

"Okay."

Wyatt was the last to leave. He crouched in front of my chair, forcing me to meet his eyes.

"He's going to be okay," he said quietly. "And what happened—none of it was your fault."

I didn't respond. Couldn't. Because we both knew that was a lie.

Wyatt squeezed my shoulder once, then stood and left with the others.

---

Katherine's POV

The nurse led me down the corridor to room 407, our footsteps muffled against gleaming linoleum. The hallway was terrifyingly silent—just distant monitor beeps and hushed voices at the nurses' station. After signing endless paperwork, after the blur of driving here with shaking hands, I finally stood outside my son's room.

I couldn't move.

Through the small window, I could see him—Julian, motionless in the hospital bed, pale as the sheets. Bandages wrapped both arms, and one leg was elevated beneath the blanket, heavily wrapped. The monitors beeped steadily—proof of life, but also proof of how close we'd come to losing him.

My son. My baby. The one I never protected properly.

The nurse's words from the phone call still echoed: Your son. Emergency surgery. Life-threatening injuries.

I pushed the door open and walked to his bedside on unsteady legs. His skin was cool when I took his hand, fingers limp in mine. The monitors beeped on, indifferent to my grief.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, knowing he couldn't hear me. "I'm so sorry, Julian."

The tears came then—hot, unexpected. I'd cried so rarely in my adult life that the sensation felt almost foreign.

Memories flooded back: Five-year-old Julian showing me a drawing, eyes bright with pride. I'd barely glanced at it. "That's nice, dear. Go show your father."

Ten years old, coming home with a scraped knee. I'd scolded him for being reckless instead of asking if he was hurt.

Fifteen years old, trying to tell me about a girl he liked. I'd cut him off. "Focus on your studies."

I compared him to Arthur constantly. Made him feel like he was never enough.

"You almost died," I said to his unconscious face, my voice breaking. "And my first thought was that I wasted so many years being disappointed in you when I should have been proud."

I thought about the medication I'd been switching in Richard's prescriptions. The divorce papers hidden in his office. The life I'd been planning in secret while my sons suffered under their father's impossible expectations.

I was so focused on my own escape that I forgot my children needed saving too.

The door opened behind me. I quickly wiped my tears, but it was too late.

Eleanor Sterling stood in the doorway, barely recognizable. She wore a pale blue hospital gown, hair still damp and pulled back in a messy ponytail. Despite the dark circles under her eyes, she looked cleaner than she must have when she first arrived.

"Mrs. Vance." Her voice was gentle. "I didn't know you'd arrived."

I stood, trying to find the composure I'd worn like armor for decades. But it felt hollow now. My eyes went to the hospital gown.

"Eleanor, are you—" I gestured vaguely. "Are you hurt? Did something happen to you too?"

"Oh." She glanced down, as if just remembering. "No, I'm fine. My clothes were covered in blood. Julian's blood. The nurses helped me wash up and gave me this to wear while they're cleaning my things."

The image hit me—Eleanor covered in my son's blood, sitting vigil for hours until someone convinced her to change. The devotion in that simple act made my throat tight.

"I see." I managed to keep my voice steady. "That was good of them."

Eleanor moved to the other side of the bed, eyes never leaving Julian's face. "The doctor said he's stable. No life-threatening damage. He'll need rest and physical therapy, but he should make a full recovery."

Relief flooded through me so intensely I had to sit down.

Eleanor continued, her voice taking on a professional quality. "The wounds were deep, but clean. They missed major arteries. He was... extremely lucky."

"Lucky." The word tasted bitter. "He stabbed himself three times to save you."

Eleanor flinched, guilt flashing across her face.

"I'm not blaming you," I said quickly. "I'm just... trying to understand."

Silence stretched between us, broken only by steady monitor beeps.

"Eleanor." I took a breath. "I didn't support this relationship. I thought you weren't right for Julian."

Eleanor stiffened but didn't look away.

"Richard—my husband—he's always been threatened by your mother's success. By your family's influence." The words came out simpler than I'd planned, stripped of careful political language. "And I let his insecurity become mine. I was a fool."

I looked at Julian's unconscious face, then back at Eleanor, seeing her properly for the first time—not as a threat, but as the woman my son had chosen, had nearly died for.

"But I was wrong. Completely wrong."

I stood, walked closer, meeting her eyes directly. "As a woman who's spent years in a marriage built on duty rather than love—I recognize something in you that I admire."

Eleanor looked surprised.

"You're interesting without being frivolous. Compassionate without being blind. Accomplished without being arrogant. You know who you are, and you're not afraid to be that person."

I paused, glancing at Julian. "And tonight, I saw how my son was willing to die for you."

My voice cracked. "That kind of devotion—that kind of love—it's rare. It's precious. And I was a fool not to see it sooner."

Eleanor's eyes were bright with tears.

"I'm asking you," I said, my voice dropping to something more vulnerable than I'd allowed myself in years, "as a mother who failed her son—please take care of him. Please don't take his love for granted."

Eleanor nodded, tears spilling over. "I won't. I promise."

"And Eleanor..." I hesitated. "I need you to be certain. About Julian. About this relationship."