Chapter 85 85
Lucas paused at the door of the ICU suite, hand already on the handle.
Patricia's voice cracked like a whip before he could step out.
“Don’t you dare walk away from me right now, Lucas.”
He stopped. Turned slowly.
His mother stood exactly where she’d been—arms crossed, eyes blazing with a fury that only came from love twisted into disappointment.
“If you leave this room without promising me you’ll fix this,” she said, voice low and trembling with restraint, “I will never forgive you. Not as long as I live.”
Lucas’s jaw tightened.
Eleanor took one step closer—close enough that he could see the tremor in her lower lip she was trying to hide.
“You remember when I thought I would die?” she continued, words slicing clean. “When my kidneys failed and the doctors said I had days—maybe hours—if I didn’t get compatible blood fast enough. Who fucking donated? Who sat in that chair for six hours letting them drain her until she was pale and dizzy, just so I could live?”
Lucas closed his eyes for half a second.
“Olivia,” he said quietly.
“Olivia,” she repeated, voice rising. “Olivia who held my hand while you were in Tokyo closing a deal. Olivia who prayed with me every night I was in that bed. Olivia who never once asked for credit, never once used it against you. And this—” She gestured sharply toward the unconscious woman in the bed. “—this is what she gets in return?”
She reached into her coat pocket and pulled out the diamond engagement ring—Olivia’s ring—the one Lucas had placed on her finger under her watchful, approving eye.
“I pressured you to put this on her finger,” She said, holding it up between them like evidence. “I told you she was the right choice. From a family that understood what legacy means. And you agreed. You agreed, Lucas. You promised me you’d build something real with her.”
She stepped forward again—until she was right in front of him—and pressed the ring into his palm, closing his fingers around it with surprising force.
“You better make this right,” she whispered, voice breaking on the last word. “Before I get back to the Brooks mansion. Because if you choose that woman—that child—over the one who bled for this family… I will never look at you the same way again.”
Lucas stared down at the ring in his hand.
Eleanor searched his face—searching for the boy she’d raised, not the man who’d just walked into this room carrying guilt like a second skin.
Then she turned away, shoulders rigid, and walked back to Olivia’s bedside.
“Fix it,” she said without looking back. “Or don’t come home.”
Lucas stood there another long moment—ring biting into his palm.
Then he slipped it into his pocket.
Opened the door.
And left.
The hallway felt colder than before.
He walked past nurses, past security, past the private elevator—without seeing any of it.
Because the only thing echoing in his head was his mother’s voice.
Olivia who bled for this family.
Fix it.
Or don’t come home.
He stepped into the waiting town car.
The driver glanced in the rearview.
“Where to, sir?”
Lucas stared straight ahead—eyes distant, jaw locked.
“Home,” he said quietly.
Lucas stepped into the mansion, the door shutting behind him with a heavy thud.
The silence was loud.
His jacket landed on the couch. His strides were sharp, restless, as his eyes swept the living room.
“Get out.”
The words came cold.
Blair stood in front of him, stunned. Her hands trembled as she shook her head. “Lucas...
He pointed to the door. “I don’t care what you swear. Pack your things. Now.”
Tears filled her eyes instantly. She dropped to her knees, fingers clutching his trouser leg. “Please don’t do this to me. I have nowhere to go. Maverick—”
“Enough.” He yanked his leg free. “That child is not your shield.”
She broke then—crying, sobbing, crawling closer as if desperation itself dragged her toward him. “I’ll do anything,” she whispered, voice cracking. “Just don’t throw me out.”
His chest tightened. His hands curled into fists as he loomed over her, anger burning, control slipping.
“Anything?” he asked darkly.
She nodded, tears spilling.
His vision blurred.
“No.”
Lucas slammed both palms against the desk.
The sharp pain grounded him. The room snapped back into place—quiet, empty, untouched.
Blair wasn’t on the floor.
She wasn’t crying.
She wasn’t begging.
Lucas straightened slowly, breathing hard.
“What the hell are you thinking?” he muttered to himself, jaw clenched. “Get a grip.”
He dragged a hand through his hair, anger now directed inward.
“No,” he said again, firmer this time. “I won’t let her get into my head.”
The study door opened quietly.
A soft knock first—almost apologetic—then the young maid, Clara, stepped inside carrying a small silver tray.
Clara paused just inside the doorway, eyes lowered respectfully.
“Sir… Miss Blair prepared this for you. She said it’s her special recipe—something warm for when you’re not feeling well.” Her voice was gentle. “She insisted I bring it straight to you. Said you might need it after… everything today.”
Lucas lifted his head slowly from where it had been resting against his clasped hands on the desk. His eyes were shadowed, still red-rimmed from the hospital and the weight of his mother's words. He stared at the tray like it was a foreign object.
Clara took a careful step forward and set the tray on the edge of the desk, careful not to disturb the scattered papers.
“She worked on it herself in the kitchen,” the maid continued softly, unable to hide a small, genuine smile. “Wouldn’t let any of us help. Kept tasting it, adjusting the salt, adding a little more thyme… she said it always made her feel better when she was upset. Thought maybe it would help you too.”
Lucas didn’t speak at first.
He reached out—and wrapped his fingers around the warm bowl. The heat seeped into his palms. He stared into the golden broth, flecks of parsley floating on the surface, a single thin slice of lemon bobbing gently.
Clara hesitated, then added quietly, “She’s very kind, sir. The way she looks at Master Mave… the way she made this just for you, even after… well. I just thought you should know.”
Lucas’s throat worked once.
He gave a single, almost impercep
tible nod.
“Thank you, Clara. That’ll be all.”
She bobbed a small curtsy and slipped out, closing the door behind her with the softest click.