Alexander drove as if fleeing hell.
The speedometer needle shot past 160 kilometers per hour, the car a silver bullet tearing through the empty early‑morning highway. Evelyn sat in the passenger seat, one hand gripping her seatbelt, the other braced against the dashboard, her knuckles white. She wanted to tell him to slow down, but the sight of his bloodless profile and clenched jaw stopped the words in her throat.
She had never seen him wear that expression before. Not anger, not grief—a void, as if everything that made him him had been emptied out. His eyes were fixed on the road ahead but saw nothing. His hands gripped the wheel as though they held a knife.
A twenty‑minute drive. He made it in nine.
When they reached the hospital, the lights at the emergency entrance were blinding. Alexander practically ripped the door off its hinges in his rush to get out, leaving the engine running. Evelyn grabbed the keys and ran after him, her heels slipping on the polished floor; she kicked them off.
The hallway was already crowded. Two uniformed police officers, a lawyer with a briefcase, and the Windsor family's elderly butler—a man in his seventies leaning against the wall, his eyes red‑rimmed. Everyone stepped aside when they saw Alexander.
The attending physician came down the corridor, his white coat still stained with blood. He removed his surgical mask, his face bearing that particular heavy calm that doctors wear.
"Mr. Windsor, I'm so sorry."
Alexander didn't stop. He pushed past the doctor, shoved open the double doors to the morgue, hard enough to send them crashing against the walls. Evelyn followed, her bare feet on the cold tiles, each step like walking on blades.
The morgue was freezing. Cold enough to make her teeth chatter. Two gurneys stood side by side, white sheets covering them from head to foot. The light was harsh and sterile, leaching all color from everything.
Alexander stood before the first gurney, his hand hovering over the white sheet, trembling. The man who had never hesitated in any boardroom, who had made life‑and‑death decisions without a blink—now he couldn't find the courage to lift a piece of cloth.
Evelyn went to him and took his hand. His hand was cold, colder than the morgue.
He finally lifted the sheet.
Mr. Windsor's face appeared in the light. Peaceful, as if asleep. The faintest hint of a smile lingered at the corner of his mouth—perhaps in his final moments, he had been thinking of something happy.
Alexander didn't cry. He only looked at his father's face, motionless.
Then he lifted the second sheet.
Mrs. Windsor lay there, her silver hair neatly arranged, her hands folded across her chest. In life, she had been a graceful woman; in death, she was no less so.
Alexander fell to his knees.
Not slowly—his knees simply gave way, as though a tower had crumbled. He knelt on the concrete floor, bracing himself with his hands, and began to dry‑heave. There was nothing in his stomach, only bile, coming up again and again, mixed with sounds that were barely human—the guttural keening of a wounded beast deep in its den, a sound of primal, unadorned anguish.
Evelyn knelt beside him and held him. He shoved her away, hard enough to send her to the floor. But the next moment, he reached out, pulled her back, and held her as if she were the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth. His nails dug into her arms, leaving marks; she felt the sting of broken skin, but she didn't move.
She only held him, saying over and over, "I'm here. I'm here. I'm here."
His face was buried in the hollow of her neck, his tears soaking her collar. He wasn't crying—Alexander didn't cry. Those were not tears; they were something deeper, something that bled from the fissures in his soul.
She didn't know how long they stayed like that. Minutes. Perhaps hours.
Evelyn lifted her head, her blurry gaze falling on the hallway beyond. At the far end, in the shadows the lights didn't reach, a woman stood against the wall, dressed in black, a wide‑brimmed hat hiding half her face. But Evelyn saw the corner of her mouth—
Curving upward, just slightly.
It was Isabella Montecristo.
Evelyn's heart sank. But in her arms, Alexander was still trembling, and she had no time to wonder what that smile might mean.
She didn't know that smile was the beginning of all her nightmares.