I SPENT THE DAY MAPPING out my course of action, confident that it was the right one. When Lucian got home tonight, we would sit down like adults and discuss what happened last night.
After taking some time to digest my thoughts on the incident, I knew something was up with him. I just wasn’t quite sure what it was. He usually talked to me if something was bothering him, but this time, it came out of left field and blindsided me. He needed to know that it was unacceptable. And then, he needed to know that regardless, I was there for him.
I decided to broach the subject of his cancer first because that was the most pressing issue. Even as tenuous as things were between us, I wanted to maintain hope. I wanted to convince him that he could and should fight, and I was determined to do it without bringing up the subject of the baby. With his history, the last thing I wanted to do was corner him with the announcement.
Lucian needed to choose life without feeling tricked into it, and I believed he would. I was certain of it. Or maybe, I was just deluded.
When I woke up on the sofa at midnight with still no sign of him, I began to wonder if we were set to have a repeat of the night before. I checked my phone and saw nothing from him, and the fracture in my heart split a little deeper. I sat up and stared at the door, debating what I should do. But when I saw his shoes there, I realized he had come home.
It didn’t take me long to find him. When I wandered down the hall, his office door was open, and he was at his desk. But this wasn’t the Lucian that I knew. His clothes were wrinkled, and his face was covered with a day’s worth of growth that he usually kept clean. That wasn’t what bothered me. What bothered me was the alcohol I could smell from the doorway, seeping from his pores.
“Have you been drinking?” It was a stupid question, considering that the bottle of whiskey sat on the desk in front of him. But I wanted an explanation that would make sense. I’d never seen Lucian drink before.
“What does it matter, pet?” He smiled, and it was lopsided, his gaze moving over my body with a hunger that always managed to stir something inside me, even when I was angry.
We needed to talk, but it was clear it wouldn’t be while he was in this condition. I moved forward, confiscating the bottle of whiskey from the desk, and Lucian laughed.
“Do you think that’s going to stop me?”
“What is going on with you?” I demanded. “Is this because of the trial?”
The humor disappeared from his face in an instant, and his dark eyes settled on my face like a knife. “Don’t talk about the trial. It’s none of your business.”
The viciousness of his voice hit me like a brick, and instinctively, I took a step back. I didn’t know who was in this room, but it wasn’t Lucian. The Lucian I knew was always serious but thoughtful. He was protective and considerate of my feelings. But right now, the man sitting across from me was a stranger.
“I think I should go.”
Without warning, he stood and came around the desk, his fingers locking around my arm. For a split second, there was fear in his eyes. But more than that, there was devastation. So much devastation.
I wanted him to tell me what was wrong, but instead, he just said, “We have a contract. You’re not going anywhere.”
“I meant down the hall,” I murmured.
His grip on me relaxed, and he seemed to shake off his thoughts as he let me go.
“You’re right,” he said solemnly. “You should probably do that.”
The locking mechanism on the office door clicked into place as I retreated, and the agony in my chest uncoiled, spreading throughout my entire body.
As I poured the rest of the whiskey into the bathroom sink, I considered locking him out of the bedroom again. I doubted he’d be coming anyway, but in the end, I realized that I wanted him to have the option just in case.
It felt like the earth had just opened up between us, shifting in different directions and creating a huge divide that neither of us could breach. My head hurt, and I was heart sick, and I wasn’t good at dealing with these situations on my own.
I needed my Lucian back. I needed him to tell me that everything was going to be okay because right now it felt like it wasn’t. But he didn’t come while I brushed my teeth or climbed into bed. He didn’t come while I stared up at the ceiling and tried to sleep.
Instead, he came to me in the middle of the night when I was trapped in the clutches of a dream. I thought I was still in another world when I felt him lay his head on my forearm while he balled my nightgown in his fists.
When I opened my blurry eyes, he was kneeling on the floor beside the bed, offering his complete surrender as moisture stained his cheeks. He didn’t make a sound, but I knew he was crying.
“Lucian?” I dragged my fingers through his hair and held his face against me in the way I suspected a mother would comfort a wounded child. He was so fragile that I had no idea how to navigate it, but I couldn’t bear to let him suffer. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
“Don’t let me push you away,” he pleaded.
His grip on me tightened as he said it, and I continued to stroke his hair, kissing his face. “I won’t,” I promised foolishly. “I won’t.”
“Emmanuel is dead,” he told me. “He killed himself.”
The words lodged into my ears like ice picks, and for a moment, I was so stunned I couldn’t speak. But then it hit me all at once—the sudden sorrow, so deep and violent—and I stopped breathing. At that moment, Lucian’s pain had become my own. His devastation had slithered into my body and adopted me as the next host.
I held him against me as sobs wracked my body, bleeding out my anger over everything that was so unjust in this world. We cried together, and we held each other, but we didn’t speak. It was one of the only moments in my life I could recall when words weren’t needed.
We were in mourning.
And today, the sun would not rise.