"Who is this?" my mother asked, her voice tight with disbelief. She reached back, tapping my father lightly on his chest without taking her yes off of us. "I'm not imagining this, am I, Arthur?"
"No, you most certainly are not, my dear," he replied, though his gaze remained fixed, pointedly, on our joined hands. "It seems our only daughter has not only managed to entangle herself in some trouble, but has also been keeping a few...interesting secrets."
I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out.
And Marcus, of course, was no help at all.
He straightened, though his hand remained firmly around mine, then he stepped forward with a quiet certainty, placing himself just slightly ahead of me.
Then, with deliberate formality, he bowed his head, one arm coming to rest against his chest in a gesture that felt entirely out of place in a modern hospital room.
"You are her father...and her mother," he said.
My father's eyes flicked once more to our joined hands, his expression sharpening. "And you are?"
Marcus did not falter.
"I am the man who intends to claim her."
The words settled heavily in the room, foreign and unmistakable, all at once.
I closed my eyes, wishing, absurdly, that the bed would simply swallow me whole. I knew explaining this to them was going to be impossible. I just hadn't expected them to be here so soon.
"Elena," my mother cut in, her voice tight with concern.
I forced my eyes to open.
"What is the meaning of this?"
Her arms folded across her chest. I couldn't help but feel like that little girl once again, being reprimanded by her mother for staying out way past curfew.
I tightened my grip on Marcus's hand for a brief second before letting go. He allowed it, but I could feel the shift in him immediately. The subtle tension in his stance, like something in him hated the distance.
"Mom, I can explain."
"Oh, I'm sure you can," she said, her voice sharpening. "I would very much like an explanation for why my daughter's face is suddenly on national news. Why her ex-fiancé, whom we've welcomed into this family, is now under arrest for shooting her and why I walk into this room to find her holding hands with the very man involved in it all."
She let out a shaky breath, her composure cracking at the edges.
Well, when she put it like that...
"You've given us quite the fright," my father said, his tone more measured, though no less firm. "Your mother hasn't slept. Barely eaten. We were worried sick."
His gaze shifted to Marcus, assessing.
"And you," he continued, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Who are you, exactly? And on what grounds do you think you can make such a claim over my daughter?"
The question hung heavy in the air, demanding an answer.
I parted my lips, ready to piece together some kind of explanation, something that didn't involve everything that had actually happened, but the door opened again.
"Alan—"
My father's voice shifted instantly, relief breaking through the tension as he stepped forward to take his hand. "It's good to see you. How's Pippa?"
"She's well, thank you," Uncle Alan replied with a small, reassuring smile. His gaze flicked briefly to me, then to Marcus, still standing far too close at my side. "I came as soon as I heard raised voices."
"Yes," my father said, his tone tightening again as he gestured toward me. "My wife and I would very much like to understand why our daughter has been shot...and why that man"—he pointed, not bothering to hide his disapproval— "is claiming her as if she were something to be taken. What exactly is going on here?"
A beat.
"And she's missed work," he added, almost like an afterthought, though it carried just as much weight. "She never misses work."
Uncle Alan exhaled slowly, glancing between Marcus and I before turning back to my parents.
"Garrick is the problem," he said, more serious now. "He's been targeting your daughter. When he found that Marcus had been seeing your daughter, he used his family's influence to build a case against him, something to justify what he's been doing."
My mother's breath caught.
"Elena and Pippa came to me when things escalated," Uncle Alan continued. "They needed somewhere safe. I thought I could keep them out of it."
His jaw tightened slightly.
"But Garrick followed."
A string of curses left my father's mouth. Sharp, unfamiliar, nothing like I had ever heard from him before. My mother pressed a hand to her lips, a broken sound escaping her.
"Mom—" I called weakly. "I'm okay."
"You were shot!" she cried, rushing to my side, her composure finally breaking. "Oh, my baby..."
Her hands hovered over me, afraid to touch too hard, as if I might break beneath her.
Behind her, Uncle Alan stepped closer to Marcus, lowering his voice as he gently guided him a step back.
"Let them have their moment," he said quietly.
Marcus didn't argue, but I could feel his reluctance when he stepped away.
The moment the door clicked shut, my parents turned their full attention to me, fussing in the way they had always did. My mother hovered too close, adjusting the blanket that didn't need adjusting, while my father asked questions I didn't quite have the strength to answer. I let them, watching them quietly, more intently than I ever had before.
Uncle Alan's words echoed faintly in the back of my mind.
Just weeks ago, I would have dismissed it without a second thought. Impossible. Absurd.
But now as I look at them, really looked at them, I couldn't ignore it so easily.
My gaze lingered on my father's pale blue eyes, the streaks of white threading through his dark hair, the familiar lines of worry etched onto his face. Then my mother. Her chestnut hair, so much like mine, or so I had always believed. Her green eyes, her strong jaw softened only by the way she looked at me now, fragile and afraid.
We looked similar enough that I had never questioned it.
But not the same, not entirely.
And yet, they were the only parents I had ever known. The ones who raised me, worried for me, loved me. That had always been enough. It had to be.
If they noticed anything was off, they didn't say. Not even as I explained, carefully and selectively, what had happened with Garrick. Why we had ended things. How he had refused to let go, how he had followed, pushed and escalated things far beyond reason.
Even then, they weren't pleased. Not just with him, but with me. For keeping it from them. Their disappointment lingered quietly beneath their concern, unspoken but impossible to miss.
It wasn't until a nurse stepped in to announce that visiting hours were over that they finally relented.
My mother was unwilling to leave, her hand still lingering in mine but I assured her that I would be fine. That I would likely be discharged the next day anyway. It took some convincing but eventually, they left, promising to drop by tomorrow again.
The room fell quiet again after that, the absence of their presence settling in more heavily than I expected.
Before movement by the door drew my attention, just seconds after they left.
Marcus stepped inside and closed it behind him, the soft click echoing louder than it should have been in the quiet room.
My mouth went dry at the sight of him.
He had changed. Gone were the unfamiliar clothes I had seen him in. Now replaced by a dark blue sweater and jeans that fit him far too well, the fabric doing little to hide the strength he carried beneath. Strength I knew all too well.
The color deepened the darkness of his hair, sharpened the bronze of his skin, as though the sun had never quite left him.
He looked handsome. Like he had been carved from a different world and simply set down here among us.
It was no wonder women like Victoria were attracted to him. He must have been admired in his time, desired, even.
And now, he was walking toward me.
"Why are you looking at me like that?" he asked, settling into the chair my father had just sat on, next to my bed.
"Nothing," I said after a moment, forcing myself to look away, to shake off whatever that had been. "I thought visiting hours were over."
"As if that would stop me," he replied, taking my hand as though it belonged to him. His grip firm, familiar. "Your evening meal should arrive soon. And besides—"
His gaze held mine, something unreadable flickering beneath it.
"I am no visitor."
A small pause settled between us.
"What do you mean?" I asked, quieter now.
But instead of answering, he simply lifted the corner of his mouth.
Mischievous.
Oh, fuck.