Two nights later, the sky over Croft Manor turned black. A massive electrical storm battered the estate, rattling the leaded glass windows of the East Wing.
Victoria sat in the rocking chair, her knees pulled to her chest. When the lightning struck a transformer near the perimeter wall, the power died. The manor plunged into total darkness.
The sudden shift triggered a visceral memory–the stage going dark right before she collapsed. Her breath hitched. The walls felt like they were closing in. She couldn’t breathe.
“Victoria!”
The door flew open. A beam of light cut through the room. William stood there holding an old-fashioned oil lantern. He saw her rocking frantically, gasping for air, trapped in a panic attack.
He set the lantern on the nightstand and knelt before her. “Hey. Look at me.”
“I can’t… I can’t see…” she hyperventilated.
“You’re safe,” William said. He didn’t call for the nurse. He didn’t page security. He did what he should have done months ago. He pulled her out of the chair and onto the rug, wrapping his arms around her.
He held her tight, his chest against her back, rocking her slowly. “I’ve got you. The generator will kick in soon. I’m right here.”
Slowly, her breathing synced with his. The terror ebbed, leaving her exhausted.
“Don’t leave,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the thunder.
“I won’t,” William promised.
He helped her into the bed. She lay on her side, curling around her stomach. William hesitated, then lay down behind her, fully clothed, on top of the duvet. He spooned her, his arm draped protectively over her waist, his hand resting gently just above the baby.
For the first time since the divorce papers were signed, there was no anger. There was only the storm outside and the warmth of the man who was finally acting like a husband.