It was 3:00 AM. The storm outside battered the windows of the Master Suite, but inside, the silence was absolute.
Victoria sat by the bed. She had been reading aloud to Alistair–not business reports, but poetry. She put the book down.
“Do you remember Leo?” she asked suddenly.
Alistair’s eyes, which had been fixed on the wall, slid toward her.
“I know you’re in there,” Victoria whispered, leaning close. “I saw the tear. I know you aren’t just a vegetable. But I need you to fight, Alistair. Beatrice is breaking. Cross is circling. If you want to save your legacy, you have to come back to us.”
She took his hand. It was limp, heavy.
“If you can understand me,” Victoria commanded, her voice trembling, “blink twice. Not a spasm. Two blinks.”
Alistair stared at her. The effort required was Herculean. It felt like trying to lift a mountain with his eyelids. He focused all his rage, all his shame, and all his will into the tiny muscles of his face.
*Blink.*
Victoria held her breath.
*Blink.*
It was slow. It was deliberate. It was an answer.
“Okay,” Victoria breathed, a shiver running down her spine. “Okay. We can work with that.”