Chapter 85 Consciousness
The first forty-eight hours after they pulled the tube were a blur of staggered progress and terrifying setbacks.
Tristan drifted in and out of consciousness, his mind fighting through the fog of pain medication and physical trauma. He would wake, disoriented and panicked, gripping my hand with surprising strength before the exhaustion pulled him back under.
But by Sunday evening, the fog began to clear.
I was sitting in the vinyl chair beside his bed, the sterile hum of the ICU providing a constant, white-noise backdrop. The overhead lights were dimmed. I was holding his left hand—the one without the arterial line—tracing the faint blue veins beneath his pale skin.
His fingers twitched against mine.
I looked up.
His eyelids fluttered, then opened slowly. The amber was still muted, but the confusion was gone. He was lucid.
He turned his head slightly, wincing as the movement pulled at the heavy bandages covering his right shoulder.
"Hey," I whispered, leaning forward, resting my free hand gently against his cheek.
He looked at me for a long moment. He took in my face, the dark circles under my eyes, the slight tremor in my hands.
"You look terrible," he croaked, his voice raw and rasping.
A startled, watery laugh broke from my throat. "You should see the other guy."
The ghost of a smile touched his lips, but it vanished quickly, replaced by a grimace of pain.
"Water," he whispered.
I grabbed the small plastic cup and the sponge swab from the bedside table. I dipped the sponge and carefully touched it to his cracked lips. He sucked the moisture greedily.
"Not too much," I cautioned, pulling it away. "Dr. Aris said we have to take it slow."
He let his head fall back against the pillow, his eyes closing briefly. When he opened them again, they were fixed on the ceiling.
"Silas," he murmured.
"He's in custody," I said quickly, not wanting him to agitate himself. "Vane is handling everything. The DA has an ironclad case. He's not getting out."
Tristan slowly turned his head to look at me. The betrayal in his eyes was profound. It wasn't just the physical wound that Silas had inflicted; it was the destruction of a fifteen-year trust.
"He was going to kill you," Tristan said, the words heavy and jagged.
"He didn't," I said softly.
"I didn't see him," Tristan continued, his voice tight. "I was standing in the wings, and I didn't see him. He bypassed the entire security grid."
He squeezed my hand. Hard.
"I told you I would protect you, and I failed," he rasped, his eyes filling with a dark, suffocating guilt. "I walked you right into it."
"Tristan, stop." I leaned closer, forcing him to meet my gaze. "You didn't fail. Silas failed us. But you... you stepped in front of a bullet for me."
He looked away, staring at the sterile white wall.
"It shouldn't have been necessary," he whispered.
"But it was," I said firmly. "And you did it. You didn't hesitate."
I reached up and gently touched his jaw, turning his face back to mine.
"Ida is locked away," I told him, keeping my voice steady and clear. "She's in a maximum-security psychiatric facility. She's not getting out this time. The offshore accounts are frozen. The board has completely severed her from Veridian. She has nothing left."
Tristan’s jaw clenched. The mention of his sister brought a storm of conflicting emotions across his face—rage, grief, and a twisted, lingering horror.
"She wanted to bring the house down," he muttered.
"She wanted to destroy us," I corrected. "But she didn't."
I leaned down, pressing my forehead against his uninjured shoulder, right next to the thick white bandages.
"We survived, Tristan. We won."
He let out a long, shuddering breath, his hand coming up to rest weakly against my back.
"Mina," he whispered, my name a soft, broken prayer in the quiet room. "I'm so sorry."
"For what?"
"For everything," he breathed. "For five years ago. For the last two months. For dragging you back into this nightmare."
I lifted my head, looking into his amber eyes. They were bright with unshed tears.
"You didn't drag me," I said softly. "I chose to come back. I chose to stay. And I'm choosing to be here now."
He stared at me, the hope warring with the exhaustion in his features.
"You didn't want to be my wife," he reminded me, his voice barely a whisper.
"I didn't want to be the woman who was afraid of her husband," I clarified. "I didn't want to be a possession to be protected. I wanted to be a partner."
I reached out and gently traced the line of his jaw.
"The man who threw me out five years ago wouldn't have taken that bullet," I said. "He would have protected the company. He would have protected his pride. But the man who tackled me on that stage... that's the man I love."
Tristan’s eyes widened slightly, the breath catching in his throat.
"Say that again," he demanded, his voice stronger now, fueled by a sudden, fierce energy.