Chapter 263
Sophia's POV
The elevator doors closed behind Lucas, and I stood there in the ICU hallway, staring at the spot where he'd disappeared.
"Sophia." My father's voice pulled me back. "Come sit down."
I followed him to the small waiting area, my legs suddenly unsteady.
"He really gave the company back," my father said quietly. "No strings attached. And he brought Dr. Navarro."
I nodded, unable to speak.
"I still want to kill him for what he did to you." He paused. "But I don't know what to think anymore."
Before I could respond, Dr. Navarro emerged from my mother's room. His expression was cautiously optimistic, but there was hesitation there too.
"How is she?" I asked, standing up.
"Stable. The treatment is showing promising results." He gestured for us to sit. "But Mrs. Cruz's recovery will be a marathon, not a sprint. The damage was severe. She'll need consistent care—medication schedules, breathing exercises, regular monitoring."
My father's hand found mine, gripping tight.
"I'd estimate a minimum of six months before she regains full consciousness. Possibly as long as a year."
The words hit me like a physical blow.
"Maintain her care regimen. Keep her comfortable. Talk to her—comatose patients often retain some level of awareness." He paused. "And take care of yourselves. This kind of caregiving can be exhausting."
After he left, my father dropped his head into his hands. "A year. Dios mío."
"We take turns," I said firmly. "You handle the company one week, I'll stay with Mom. Then we switch."
He nodded slowly. "Okay. We do it together."
---
The first few weeks were brutal.
My father and I fell into a rhythm—one of us at the hospital, the other handling the company.
And through it all, Lucas kept showing up.
Not every day. But often enough that the nurses started recognizing him, nodding politely when he arrived with flowers or medical journals for Dr. Navarro.
I refused to be there when he visited.
My father tried to keep him away at first. But even when driven away, Lucas would come back.
---
Months passed.
Winter gave way to spring, then summer. The company stabilized. I took on more responsibilities.
And every other week, I sat beside my mother's bed and talked to her.
I told her about the company. About Lucas. How he kept coming, week after week, even though I refused to see him. How the nurses said he'd sit with her for hours, reading aloud from books she used to love.
And I told her about the baby I'd lost.
"I lost something, Mom," I whispered one afternoon, my voice breaking. "Something I didn't even know I had until it was gone. Just... a possibility. A secret I hadn't even told myself yet."
I pressed my hand against my stomach, remembering the cramping, the blood, the sudden emptiness.
"And now I dream of her. I don't even know if it was a girl, but in my dreams, she is. And she has Lucas's eyes. Isn't that strange? I never got to meet her, but somehow I know exactly what she would have looked like."
My mother's hand didn't move. Her face remained still, peaceful.
But I kept talking anyway.
---
Lucas's visits became a strange constant.
The nurses would mention him in passing—"Mr. Reynolds brought your mother orchids today" or "Mr. Reynolds asked Dr. Navarro about trying a new medication."
My father stopped raging about it after a few months. Mostly because my mother's condition had started to improve.
Her breathing grew stronger. Her color returned.
Dr. Navarro called it "remarkable progress."
---
The one-year mark came and went.
We held a small gathering at the hospital—my father, me, and a few of my mother's closest friends. We brought her favorite foods, played her favorite music.
And we waited.
---
It happened on a Tuesday.
I was reading aloud when I felt her hand twitch in mine.
At first, I thought I'd imagined it.
But then it happened again.
My head snapped up. "Mom?"
Her eyelids fluttered.
I shot to my feet. "Mom? Can you hear me?"
Her eyes opened slowly, blinking against the harsh lights.
And then she looked at me.
Really looked at me.
"Sophia?" Her voice was barely a whisper.
I burst into tears.
---
The next few hours were a blur of doctors and tests. My father arrived within twenty minutes, nearly collapsing with relief.
Dr. Navarro was cautiously optimistic. "Excellent progress. But we'll need to monitor her closely."
My mother seemed remarkably clear-headed. Weak, exhausted, but herself.
As the sun set and the nurses finally left us alone, she reached for my hand.
"Lucas has been here," she said softly. It wasn't a question.
I nodded, unable to speak.
"I heard everything you said by my bedside, mi amor. Everything." A small smile touched her lips. "About the company. About him coming here week after week. About the baby."
My throat tightened. "Mom—"
"As your mother, I don't want to see you get hurt again." Her voice was gentle but firm. "But I also heard the way you talked about him. The confusion. The anger. The hope you're afraid to acknowledge."
I turned my head away, tears spilling down my cheeks. "He's doing all this of his own free will. I didn't ask for any of it."
"I know."
"I don't think there's any possibility between us anymore," I whispered. "Too much has happened."
My mother was quiet for a long moment. "Maybe. Or maybe this is where healing begins." She squeezed my hand. "Only you can decide that, mija. But whatever you choose, I'm here now."
---
Lucas found out the next morning.
Blake called me around noon, his voice tight with barely suppressed laughter. "You need to get to his ward. Lucas just broke his leg."
I blinked. "What?"
"He heard your mother woke up. Tried to sprint out the door, tripped over his own feet, and went down a flight of stairs. Snapped his fibula in three places."
I pressed a hand to my mouth. "Is he okay?"
"He's in a cast and high as hell on painkillers, demanding to see you. The nurses are threatening to sedate him."
---
I found him in the orthopedic wing, his right leg encased in a cast, arguing with a nurse.
"I need to leave. Now," he said through gritted teeth.
"Mr. Reynolds, you just had surgery—"
"Sophia."
He said my name like a prayer, and the nurse turned to look at me with obvious relief.
I crossed the room slowly. "What the hell did you do?"
Lucas tried to sit up and winced. "I heard about your mother. I needed to see you."
"So you threw yourself down a staircase?"
"I tripped. Because I heard she woke up and I—" He broke off, his eyes searching my face desperately. "I needed to see you. To make sure you were okay."
The nurse slipped out quietly.
I moved closer. He looked terrible—exhausted, in pain, his hair sticking up in every direction. But his eyes held the same desperate hope I'd been trying to ignore for months.
"You're an idiot," I said softly.
"I know."
"You could have just called."
"Would you have answered?"
I didn't have an answer for that.
He reached for my hand, his fingers trembling. "I'm sorry. For everything. I know I don't deserve your forgiveness, but—"
"Lucas." Tears pricked at my eyes. "You hurt me so badly. You took everything from me—my freedom, my choices, my baby—"
"I know." His voice broke. "And I'll spend the rest of my life making up for it, if you'll let me. I'll do whatever it takes, Sophia. Whatever you need."
I looked down at our joined hands. His thumb was tracing small circles on my palm, the same gesture he used to make when we were first together.
"You broke your leg," I said quietly.
A ghost of a smile crossed his face. "Apparently I'm not great at handling good news."
I shook my head, but I couldn't stop the smile tugging at my lips. "You really are an idiot."
"Only for you."
The words hung between us, heavy with meaning.
I thought about my mother's words. About healing. About the possibility of something new rising from the ashes of what we'd destroyed.
I leaned down slowly, giving him plenty of time to pull away.
He didn't.
Our lips met in a kiss that was soft and tentative and tasted like forgiveness—or maybe just the beginning of it.
When I pulled back, he was smiling—really smiling—for the first time in what felt like forever.
"Does this mean—" he started.
"It means I'm willing to try again," I said carefully. "But if you ever—and I mean ever—pull that controlling, manipulative bullshit again, I will make you regret it. No more cages, Lucas. No more games. If we do this, we do it as equals."
His smile widened, and he brought my hand to his lips. "Deal. I promise, Sophia. Things will be different this time."