Chapter 179
Julian
"Sir, you need medical attention—"
"After," I interrupted. "First, I need to see her. I need to tell her what I did. What I chose."
Atlas hesitated, then nodded. "Yes, sir."
The drive took forty-five minutes in traffic. Every bump in the road sent fresh waves of pain through my back. Every turn made me bite down on my lip to keep from groaning.
But I stayed conscious. Stayed focused on what I needed to say to her.
When we finally pulled up outside the art center, I could see students streaming out, laughing and talking, clutching their certificates and their phones. I scanned the crowd for Elara's familiar silhouette.
And then I saw her.
She was walking slowly, like she was exhausted, her portfolio case slung over one shoulder. Her face was pale, drawn, but there was something in her eyes—something fierce and bright that made my chest ache.
She'd done it. She'd made it through the semifinals.
I pushed open the car door and stood up, even though the movement made my vision gray out at the edges. Leaned against the car because I didn't trust my legs to hold me.
She saw me. Stopped walking. Her expression shifted from surprise to concern to something complicated I couldn't quite read.
Then she started toward me.
---
"So that's what happened today," I said, leaning back against the seat. My voice had gone weak, barely above a whisper. "I wanted to wait until after your competition to tell you. But I didn't expect—" I tried for a smile and felt it come out wrong, twisted. "Turns out thirty strokes has more of an aftereffect than I thought."
The car was moving now, Atlas driving us through the darkening streets with that careful steadiness he always maintained. The partition was up, giving us privacy, but I could see his eyes in the rearview mirror, checking on me every few seconds.
I was so tired. Bone-deep exhausted in a way I'd never felt before. Every breath hurt. Every small movement sent fresh waves of pain radiating across my back.
But I kept talking, kept my eyes on Elara's face, because I needed her to understand. Needed her to know what this choice had cost, not to make her feel guilty but to show her that I was serious. That I wasn't going to change my mind or back down or find some way to weasel out of my commitment.
"I know it sounds insane," I continued, hearing the words slur slightly as exhaustion pulled at me. "Letting him do that to me. But in my family, everything is a transaction. Everything has a price. And this—" I gestured vaguely toward my back, then regretted the movement as pain spiked, "—this was what it cost to buy my freedom. To earn the right to make my own choices."
The streetlights were starting to come on, casting moving shadows across the car's interior. I watched them play across Elara's face and tried to read her expression. Tried to understand what she was thinking.
But she was so still. So silent.
Maybe I'd made a mistake. Maybe telling her all of this was too much, too intense, too—
"We need to go to the hospital," she said suddenly, and her voice cracked on the words. "Julian, you need to—"
"No." I shook my head, then immediately regretted it as the movement made the world spin. "No hospitals. Not yet."
"What do you mean 'not yet'? You're bleeding through your shirt. You need medical attention right now."
"I need to get you home first." I forced myself to sit up straighter, even though it felt like someone was driving knives into my spine. "I don't want you caught up in this. Don't want photographers getting pictures of you with me at a hospital, don't want the media connecting you to—to whatever story they'll spin about this."
"I don't care about the media," she said, and there was something fierce in her voice now. "I don't care about photographers or stories or any of it. You're hurt. You need help."
"Elara—"
"No." She cut me off, and I could hear tears in her voice even though her face was still that careful mask of control. "You don't get to do this. You don't get to tell me this whole story about how you chose me, how you paid this terrible price, and then push me away because you're worried about protecting my reputation. That's not how this works."
I looked at her—really looked at her—and saw the tears she was trying so hard not to shed. Saw the way her hands were shaking in her lap. Saw the careful distance she was maintaining between us, like she was afraid that if she got too close, she might break.
Or I might.
"I'm not pushing you away," I said quietly. "I'm trying to protect you. There's a difference."
"Is there?" She turned to face me fully, and the movement brought her close enough that I could see the exact moment her careful control started to crack. "Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like you're doing the same thing you always do. Making decisions about what's best for me without actually asking what I want."
The accusation hit harder than I'd expected. Harder than it should have, given how much pain I was already in.
"What do you want?" I asked, and my voice came out rough.
She was quiet for a long moment. Then, very carefully, she reached out and took my hand. Her fingers were cold against mine, trembling slightly, but her grip was firm.
"I want you to stop trying to handle everything alone," she said. "I want you to let me help. And I want—" Her voice broke. "I want you to go to the hospital right now, before you pass out or get an infection or—"
"Atlas," I called toward the partition, cutting her off before she could finish that thought. "Change of destination. Take us to the hospital."