Adam's POV
The hospital room was eerily quiet, the only sounds being the steady beeping of monitors and Mother's soft breathing. I'd spent the night in the uncomfortable chair beside her bed, watching her sleep, my mind racing between thoughts of her safety and concerns about Stella.
Taylor had positioned guards outside the room—a precaution I'd ordered after the attempted abduction. No one would get near Mother again, not while I could prevent it.
"Adam?" Mother's voice, fragile but clear, broke through my thoughts.
I leaned forward. "I'm here."
Her eyes, remarkably lucid today, studied my face. "You look terrible. Haven't you slept?"
"I'm fine," I replied automatically.
She attempted to sit up, wincing slightly from the pain in her arm. "I'm sorry for the trouble I've caused. This isn't how I wanted things to unfold."
"Mother," I began carefully, "the doctor says your medication was found hidden under your pillow. Why would you stop taking your prescribed treatment?"
A small, sad smile played across her lips. "Why do you think, Adam? Those pills make everything foggy. They take away my clarity, my sense of self."
"They're meant to help you," I reminded her gently.
"Help me forget," she corrected, her eyes suddenly sharp with clarity. "Your father wants me docile and confused. Easier to control that way."
I considered her words, remembering how she had appeared at William's birthday celebration—more coherent and present than I'd seen her in years.
"Is that why you hid the medication? You wanted Father to come visit you?"
"I..." Her voice faltered slightly. "I thought if I became ill enough, he might come. He always did before, whenever things became serious."
The reasoning sounded absurd to me, dangerously childlike in its logic. But I recognized the deep longing behind it—a woman still desperately seeking attention from a man who had essentially abandoned her.
Is this what love looks like after decades of marriage? This hollow shell of dependency and manipulation?
Before I could respond, the door opened, and Grace stepped in, her eyes immediately finding mine.
"Adam," she began, her voice trembling slightly, "I came as soon as I heard about the social media situation. I'm so sorry for all the trouble I've caused you."
Mother's attention shifted immediately, her eyes narrowing as they focused on Grace. "Grace, dear. How lovely to see you."
Grace moved to Mother's bedside, taking her hand with practiced tenderness. "Mrs. Lancaster, you're looking better today."
"Thank you, dear," Mother replied, her voice taking on that artificial politeness she reserved for social settings. "You're always so kind to visit."
I watched their interaction with growing impatience, noticing the subtle way Grace positioned herself between us, effectively becoming the center of attention in the room.
"Adam," Grace turned to me, her eyes suddenly brimming with tears, "I never meant for any of this to happen. The rumors, the media attention—I'm so sorry!"
She stepped toward me, arms outstretched as if to embrace me, tears streaming down her perfectly made-up face. "Please forgive me, Adam. I was thoughtless and careless."
I stepped back, avoiding her touch with a swift, deliberate movement. "Wilson," I called to my new assistant who had been waiting outside, "please escort Miss Davis home. She's clearly upset and should rest."
Grace froze, her arms still partially extended, shock evident on her face. "Adam—"
"Miss Davis," I corrected coldly, "go home. You've done enough."
Wilson moved forward immediately, a professional smile plastered on his face. "Miss Davis, if you'll come with me?"
Grace hesitated, glancing between me and Mother, clearly hoping for some intervention. When none came, her shoulders slumped slightly, and she allowed herself to be guided toward the door.
"Adam, please," she tried one last time, her voice soft and pleading.
"Go," I repeated, not meeting her eyes, "and don't come back."
---
Hours later, as we finally left the hospital, Taylor opened the car door for me, waiting for instructions.
"Sir, to the company?" he asked once we were settled inside.
"The university," I replied, checking my phone for any missed calls from Stella. Nothing.
"Sir," Taylor began cautiously, "about the medication situation..."
I looked up, instantly alert. "What about it?"
"We've completed our investigation," he reported. "Your mother's medication wasn't tampered with."
"You're certain?" I pressed, recalling Stella's suspicions about Grace.
"Absolutely, sir. The pills found under her pillow match her prescription exactly. Additionally, while Miss Davis did purchase similar-looking vitamin supplements—"
"What?" I interrupted, suddenly on high alert.
"Vitamin supplements," Taylor clarified. "Miss Davis purchased them approximately two weeks ago. However, the bottle remains sealed and untouched in her apartment. There's no evidence she intended to switch them with your mother's medication."
I absorbed this information, considering its implications. If Grace hadn't been planning to harm my mother, that eliminated one potential threat—but it didn't explain her unusual behavior lately.
"The pills," I asked, "they look similar to Mother's medication?"
Taylor nodded. "Remarkably so, sir. Similar size, color, even the bottle design is comparable. However, without opening the seal, they couldn't possibly have been used for any substitution."
I leaned back, processing this information. "Continue monitoring the situation. And Taylor—check my schedule for tomorrow. Clear whatever's necessary. I need to focus on Stella."
As the car merged into traffic, I pulled out my phone and called Stella. To my surprise, she answered on the third ring.
"Adam," her voice was cool, controlled.
"Stella," I breathed, relief washing over me at finally hearing her voice. "We need to talk."
"About what?" she asked, that distance still evident in her tone.
"About everything," I replied. "About us."
"Adam," she said after a brief pause, "do you agree to the divorce?"
The question hit me like a physical blow. "You saw my post," I said instead of answering directly.
"The social media post? Yes, I saw it."
"Then you know my answer," I replied firmly.
"But Adam," she continued, her voice softening slightly, "I want a divorce not because of your rumors with Grace. Rumors are just symptoms of something deeper. If it weren't Grace, it would be someone else."
"There won't be any more rumors," I promised, gripping the phone tighter. "I'll make sure of it."
"If I want a divorce and you can't accept that," she continued as if I hadn't spoken, "then maybe you should file instead. It might be easier for you to control the narrative that way."
"Stella—"
"By the way," she interrupted, "was it you who left sparkling water at the campus convenience store?"
"Yes," I admitted, surprised by the change of subject.
"It went bad," she said, her voice now carrying a note of sadness rather than anger. "Some things have a short shelf life, Adam. By the time they reach us, they're already spoiled."
The metaphor wasn't lost on me, sending a chill through my body.
"I can bring fresh ones," I offered, desperate to salvage something, anything, from this conversation.
"That's not the point," she replied quietly. "Some things, once they've passed their time, can't be made fresh again."
Before I could respond, she ended the call, leaving me staring at the phone in my hand, the hollow tone echoing in my ear.