Victoria Vance stood outside the heavy oak doors of the Master Suite. She hadn’t entered this room since the “Occupation,” when Alistair had evicted them. But the smell coming from the hallway was undeniable–the scent of neglect.
She pushed the doors open. The room was dim. Alistair lay tangled in sheets that hadn’t been changed in days.
“Oh, God,” Victoria breathed.
She walked to the bed. Alistair’s eyes, wild and panicked, darted toward her. He expected her to scream. He expected her to strike him. He had tormented this woman, called her weak, and tried to destroy her son.
Victoria didn’t scream. She reached out and gently brushed the hair from his forehead.
“It’s okay, Alistair,” she said softly. “I’m here.”
She stripped the soiled linens with efficient, dignified movements. She bathed his face with a warm cloth. She didn’t treat him like a deposed king or a villain; she treated him like a human being in pain.
“I know you can hear me,” Victoria murmured as she buttoned a clean pajama shirt on him. “I won’t let you rot in here. Mercy isn’t something you earn, Alistair. It’s something we give because of who *we* are.”
Alistair stared at her. For the first time in his life, the logic of power failed him. He was helpless, and the woman he had tried to crush was the only one offering him water.