The ninth floor of the Stark mansion had transformed into something between a luxury hospital wing and a crime scene cleanup operation. Doctors moved with practiced efficiency—Adrian's personal medical team, summoned from their beds at an ungodly hour because when a Stark snapped his fingers, even sleep was negotiable.
Dr. Mathews hovered over Star with a penlight, clicking it on and off, watching her pupils contract and dilate like he was trying to decode the secrets of the universe through her irises.
Star's mind, however, was running its own marathon—a frantic, stumbling race through fog and confusion. Where am I? What happened? Why does my chest feel like someone used it as a punching bag? Why is there a man with a gun? Why is Adrian looking at me like I'm a ghost he's terrified will disappear?
Her eyes darted past Dr. Mathews's shoulder, through the glass door window, to the room across the hall. A cluster of white coats surrounded a table. Someone was on that table. Someone she knew.
Lucian.
She couldn't see him—too many bodies, too much movement—but she knew. The same way she knew her own heartbeat, which was currently doing something erratic and concerning in her chest.
"Is this a hospital?" Star finally asked. Her voice came out steady, which surprised her. Inside, she was a symphony of panic.
"Yes," Adrian said, stepping closer. Then he seemed to reconsider. "Kinda. It's my house."
Star blinked at him. Once. Twice.
"That doesn't clarify anything."
Adrian opened his mouth, closed it, and looked at Dr. Mathews with the desperate expression of a man who'd just realized he had no idea how to explain the last week of chaos without sounding completely unhinged.
***
Outside the medical rooms, the Stark family had arranged themselves on the benches like a very expensive, very angry jury.
St. Stark stood—well, leaned—on his lion-headed walking stick, the carved beast's mouth open in a perpetual roar that matched the old man's current mood perfectly. His knuckles were white against the gold handle.
"Just what the hell is wrong with you?"
The question was directed at Alaric, who had the audacity to look affronted, like he was the wronged party here.
"You shot at the kid," St. Stark continued, his voice rising with each word. "A harmless kid who was just looking out for his friend. In my house. At my granddaughter's coronation."
Alaric's jaw tightened. "Uncle, we can't condone this nonsense. Our heiress's party was already ruined by his presence. I was simply doing what all of us are too scared to do."
"By shooting him?" Cassian's voice cut in, incredulous. "Yes, Dad, but... did it really have to be in front of the guests? And the cameras? And the millions of dollars' worth of witnesses?"
"Listen to your son," St. Stark said, pointing the lion head at Cassian like a scepter of approval.
Alaric's face reddened. "I was defending our family's honor—"
"You were drunk and angry and you shot a twenty-two-year-old boy in the leg because he wouldn't let you bully him," St. Stark interrupted. "If Adrian hadn't had medical rooms in this house, you'd be answering to the police right now. The Stark name would be splashed across every news outlet by morning. 'Judge Alaric Stark Shoots Unarmed Guest at Family Celebration.' How's that for honor?"
Alaric's mouth snapped shut.
St. Stark turned back toward the rooms, his shoulders sagging with the weight of the evening. "Something is rotten here. And I intend to find out what."
***
The Stark women had arranged themselves in a separate cluster—Christine, Penny, Vivian, and Maria—like three queens on a chessboard, each calculating their next move.
Maria's mind, however, was elsewhere entirely. Ten percent. The shares were hers. With her existing twenty percent, she now held thirty percent of Stark Architects. She was this close to surpassing Adrian. To becoming the boss. To finally, finally having the power she'd married into this family for.
She just needed Bonita's five percent.
The girl won't even notice it's gone, Maria thought, a smile tugging at her lips. She's too busy planning her little escapades to care about business.
"This coronation has been nothing but a disaster," Vivian said, her voice low and thoughtful. "Something is wrong somewhere, and we're all missing it."
Christine's head snapped toward her. "Right? I've been thinking the same thing."
"What would we miss?" Maria asked, her tone sharp enough to draw blood. She could already anticipate where this conversation was heading—Christine had never liked her, and Vivian was clearly just jealous of her rising status. Typical. Women always tearing down other women.
"Nothing," Christine said, her eyes lingering on Maria for a moment too long. "Nothing at all."
Maria pursed her lips and turned away, making her way toward Bonita.
***
Bonita stood in the corner like a very beautiful, very annoyed statue. The crown—heavy, ornate, ridiculous—pressed down on her head like a golden reminder that she was trapped in this circus while her actual life was happening elsewhere.
It was nearly 9 PM.
Club Lucky was waiting. Her friends were waiting. Tiffany had already slipped out the moment the party dissolved into chaos, texting her: "Meet you there. Don't flake."
As if Bonita would ever flake on her own bought-out club night.
"Mom... um, tired. Can I please be relieved of this thing?" She gestured at the crown like it was a venomous snake perched on her head.
Maria approached with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes—the kind of smile that made Bonita's internal alarm bells ring faintly, though she was too exhausted to investigate why.
"Yes, of course, sweetheart." Maria reached up and carefully removed the crown, cradling it like the fortune it represented. "I want to discuss something with you in the morning, as well."
"Sure," Bonita said, already backing toward the elevator. "Morning. Great. Can't wait."
She vanished into the elevator before her mother could say another word.
***
Hours later—hours that felt like centuries if you were waiting, and like seconds if you were the one being operated on—the doctors finished their work.
Lucian sat up slowly, wincing as the movement pulled at his freshly bandaged thigh. The bullet had been a 9mm, but Alaric—drunk, enraged, and apparently not the marksman he fancied himself—had missed every vital artery. Lucian would limp for a while, but he'd live.
Lucky me, he thought dryly.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed, testing his weight. Pain shot up his thigh like lightning, but he'd endured worse. Much worse. This was a paper cut compared to some of the "business negotiations" he'd survived.
Through the glass, he could see Star sitting up in her hospital bed, Dr. Mathews hovering over her with a frown.
Lucian's heart clenched.
She's awake. She's really awake.
***
"How did I miss this?"
Dr. Mathews's frown deepened as he examined Star's neck. Red marks. Fingerprints. The unmistakable pattern of someone's hands wrapped around her throat.
Star followed his gaze, reaching up to touch her own neck. There was pain there—a dull ache she hadn't noticed until now, buried beneath all the other chaos her body was processing.
"What's wrong?" Adrian leaned in, his eyes narrowing at the marks.
"It's like she was just strangled," Dr. Mathews said, his voice carefully neutral. "Do you feel suffocated? Like you're getting less air than you should?"
Star shook her head. "No. It just... aches a little."
Dr. Mathews nodded, reaching for an ointment. "I'll apply this. It should help with the inflammation."
Star sat still as he worked, but inside, questions were piling up like rush-hour traffic. Who strangled me?
"When am I going to get some answers?" she asked, forcing a nervous chuckle. "Because right now, I feel like I'm playing a game where everyone else knows the rules and I don't even know what sport we're playing."
Dr. Mathews set down his pad and took a seat, his expression shifting into something more clinical. More careful.
"Let's evaluate your psychological response. What's the last thing you remember?"
Star thought. The memories were there, but they felt... distant. Like photographs from someone else's life.
"I was driving from the Chateau," she said slowly. "I got in a car accident. That's why I'm here, right?"
Adrian and Dr. Mathews exchanged a glance. A loaded glance. The kind of glance that said we need to talk about this later.
"No eye talking," Star said, her voice sharpening. "What's wrong?"
"What's his name?" Dr. Mathews asked, pointing at Adrian.
"Adrian. I'm Star. I don't know you." She gestured at the doctor. "I don't think this is a hospital. Last time I woke up in a strange house, it turned out to be mine after I was kidnapped. So forgive me if I'm a little—"
She was already standing, her eyes fixed on the room across the hall where Lucian was sitting up, awake, alive—
Adrian's hands landed gently on her shoulders, guiding her back to the bed.
"Dr. Mathews is going to run more tests," he said, his voice soft. Reassuring. "You're safe, Star. I promise you that."
Star looked at him—really looked—and something in her chest shifted. His smile was warm, genuine, the kind of smile that made her want to believe him. The kind of smile that made her feel things she'd been trying very hard not to feel for quite some time now.
She bit the inside of her cheek.
Not now. Not the time. You literally just woke up from a coma and someone tried to strangle you. Prioritize.
"How about you rest?" Dr. Mathews suggested. "Sleep as long as you can. I'll see you in the morning with more answers."
Star nodded, but her eyes drifted back to Lucian's room. To him.
***
Adrian pulled Dr. Mathews into the hallway, his voice dropping to a whisper.
"How come she doesn't remember falling off the cliff?"
Dr. Mathews adjusted his sweatpants—he'd been in the middle of a very pleasant dream when Adrian's call had summoned him back to the mansion. "My guess is her mind is still catching up. Trauma does strange things to memory. The brain protects itself by burying the worst of it until it's ready to process."
"Will she remember?"
"Probably. Eventually." Dr. Mathews shrugged. "Or she might not. Every patient is different. I'll have more to say tomorrow after I run additional tests."
He shuffled toward the elevator, already dreaming of his abandoned pillow.
***
The elevator doors opened, and Maria swept out like she was making an entrance at the Met Gala.
"How are they doing?" she asked, cupping Adrian's face in both hands with maternal concern that looked, to the trained eye, suspiciously like a performance.
Christine rolled her eyes so hard she nearly saw her own brain.
"They're fine, Mom," Adrian said, gently removing her hands. "You need to get some sleep." He turned to Christine. "Grandma, you too."
He physically herded the women toward the elevator, assuring them that everything was under control, that beauty sleep was essential, that he would personally update them in the morning.
The elevator doors closed.
Adrian's expression hardened as he turned back to Alaric.
This is your fault, his glare said.
"You're going to stay up here with this killer?"
Alaric's voice dripped with contempt as Adrian approached.
"I'm not planning on sleeping over."
The voice came from behind them. They turned.
Lucian stood in the doorway of his room, pale but upright, his suit jacket clutched in one hand. He limped toward them with the particular swagger of a man who'd been shot and was daring someone to mention it.
"I'm leaving with Star, though," he added, shrugging into his jacket.
Alaric strode forward until he was inches from Lucian's face. "You've got some nerve to still spout that nonsense."
Lucian's pale face split into a grin—the kind of grin that made smart men step backward. "Are you that desperate to die tonight?"
An unbelievable silence fell over the hallway. The Stark men stared at him like he'd just suggested they all strip naked and dance the macarena.
Adrian's gaze flicked to Star, still visible through the glass, sitting up in her bed, watching them with worried eyes.
"Star cares about you," Adrian said, his fists clenching. "She considers you her brother. But you're no brother to her."
Lucian scoffed. "And you are that brother?" His brow furrowed mockingly. His grin widened when he saw Adrian's expression flicker with offense. Gotcha.
"Okay. Children." St. Stark stepped between them, his walking stick thumping against the floor. "Will you all just calm down?" He turned to Lucian. "If you want to leave, leave without causing any more scenes."
Lucian raised his hands in mock surrender. "Your kid is the one you need to scold. He's doing too much."
He was done being respectful. The bullet in his thigh had officially exhausted his patience for Stark family etiquette.
Alaric lunged forward, but Darius—quiet, observant Darius—caught his arm.
"Come on," Darius murmured. "It's late. We all have tomorrow."
Alaric allowed himself to be pulled back, his glare promising that this wasn't over.
Lucian limped into Star's room.
She was off the bed before he could take three steps, her arms wrapping around him with a ferocity that nearly knocked him off balance.
"I thought I lost you," she whispered into his chest.
Lucian's arms came around her, careful of her bandages, pulling her close. He breathed her in—antiseptic and vanilla, hospital and home. It had been so long since he'd held her like this. Since he'd smelled her hair. Since he'd felt whole.
"Are you doing alright?" Star pulled back, her eyes scanning his face, his bandaged leg, his too-pale skin.
Through the glass, Adrian watched. His jaw tightened. His hands curled into fists at his sides.
She's known him her whole life, he reminded himself. You've only known her a year. Let her have this.
It didn't help.
"I'm fine," Lucian said, blinking away the moisture that had gathered in his eyes. "I'm more than fine now. Seeing your smile is all I needed."
"Aww." Star's voice softened with teasing warmth. "Are you crying over me?"
Lucian chuckled, sniffing. "I'm the one who thought I lost you. It's been a week, Star. A week."
Star's smile faded. "A week?"
Lucian's face went serious. He cupped her face in his hands, his thumbs brushing her cheekbones, his blue eyes searching her hazel ones like he was trying to memorize every detail.
Kiss her, his heart screamed. Hold her. Never let her go.
"You were in a coma," he said quietly. "Again."
Star's forehead creased. "I was in a coma again?" She pulled back slightly, her expression shifting to worry. "Mom must be so worried. I need to call her—"
Lucian's face went white.
Why does she think her mother would be worried?
His hands dropped from her face.
"Star..." His voice cracked. "Your mom..."
Star's frown deepened. "What? What about my mom?"
Lucian opened his mouth. Closed it. His heart—already battered from the evening's events—shattered into a thousand jagged pieces.
She doesn't remember.
She doesn't remember that her mother is dead.