Caspian Hawthorne arrived at St. Jude’s looking like a ghost of the man he once was.
He was haggard, his suit rumpled, his face etched with a fear so raw it had stripped away every last trace of his infamous arrogance. He made no attempt to go to Lyra’s floor. He didn’t ask to see her. He found the surgical waiting area, a sterile, impersonal room, and sat in a hard plastic chair under the unforgiving fluorescent lights.
He just sat. And waited.
Zara found him there twenty minutes later. She stopped a few feet away, her arms crossed, her expression a cold, professional mask.
“She’s in pre-op,” Zara said, the words clipped and devoid of warmth. “The abruption is stable for now, but they’re moving quickly. The next hour is critical.”
Caspian nodded, his eyes fixed on the scuffed linoleum floor. He didn’t ask how Lyra felt about him being there. He didn’t ask for details beyond the medical facts. He didn’t make a single demand.
He just looked up at Zara, his voice raspy. “What do you need?”
The question surprised her. It was the question of a subordinate, a resource. Not a Hawthorne.
Before she could answer, another figure appeared in the doorway. Eleanora Hawthorne, her posture as rigid as steel, her face a study in grim control. Zara had called her, too.
Eleanora met Caspian’s gaze. She gave him a short, sharp nod, a silent acknowledgment that conveyed no comfort, only a shared purpose. Her presence was not for him. It was a statement of support for Lyra, and for the child.
Caspian visibly flinched, a subtle, gut-wrenching reaction. He accepted his place. He was an outsider here, a necessary component in a medical procedure, nothing more.
He stood to offer his grandmother the chair. She took it without a word.
The three of them—the best friend, the matriarch, the penitent father—waited. A fractured family, bound only by the crisis unfolding one floor above them, sitting together in a strained, suffocating silence.
About the Author
