Chapter One Hundred: Distant Shores & Silent Vigils
The morning Jihan and Arshi left for Paris, the sky was a cold, washed-out grey. Rain threatened on the horizon, a fitting mirror for the weight in my chest.
I stood on the mansion's front steps, my arms wrapped around myself, my injured shoulder aching in the damp air. Taehyun was beside me, a dark pillar of silent support, his hand resting on the small of my back. Sara was on my other side, her eyes red-rimmed, her lips pressed into a thin line. She hadn't slept well since the shooting. None of us had.
Jihan carried the bags to the car himself, refusing the guards' help. His movements were efficient, mechanical, his jaw tight. He was holding himself together by sheer force of will, I could see it—the cracks in his composure, the way his hands trembled slightly when he thought no one was watching.
Arshi stood apart, one hand resting on her belly, the other clutching a small leather satchel. Her face was pale, but her eyes were steady. She was stronger than any of us, I realized. She had to be. She was carrying the future inside her.
"You'll call when you land?" I asked, my voice softer than I intended.
Arshi nodded, her lips curving into a gentle smile. "Every hour. Until you get sick of me."
"Impossible."
We embraced carefully, mindful of her belly, mindful of my shoulder. She smelled like lavender and honey, like the breakfast she'd brought to my room, like the peace I was still learning to find.
"Take care of him," she whispered in my ear. "He needs you more than he knows."
"I know." I pulled back, my eyes stinging. "Take care of yourself. And the baby."
She laughed, the sound bright despite everything. "The baby is taking care of me. He's very demanding already."
Jihan appeared beside her, his arm sliding around her waist, pulling her close. He looked at me over her head, his expression unreadable. Then he nodded—a single, sharp acknowledgment that said more than words.
Thank you. For protecting her. For being there.
I nodded back.
Taehyun stepped forward, his hand extended. Jihan took it, and for a moment, the two men stood there, hands clasped, something passing between them that I couldn't name. Brotherhood, maybe. Or the understanding of men who had seen too much and lost too much and were determined not to lose more.
"Paris is safe," Taehyun said quietly. "My people there have been briefed. They'll watch the perimeter, vet the staff, keep the location off every record."
Jihan's jaw tightened. "I know. Thank you."
"Don't thank me. Just keep them safe."
Jihan's gaze dropped to Arshi, to the swell of her belly, to the future he was carrying across an ocean. "With my life."
They left then, climbing into the black sedan, the doors closing with a soft, final thud. The car pulled away slowly, gliding down the long drive, past the iron gates, disappearing into the grey morning.
I watched until I couldn't see them anymore.
Then I felt Taehyun's arm around my shoulders, pulling me against his side.
"They'll be okay," he said.
"You don't know that."
"I know Jihan." His voice was steady, certain. "He'll burn the world down before he lets anything happen to them."
I leaned into him, letting his warmth chase away the chill.
"I'm going to miss her," I whispered.
"I know."
We stood there for a long time, watching the empty road, holding each other.
---
The hospital was its own kind of purgatory.
White walls. Fluorescent lights. The smell of antiseptic and fear. I had been coming every day, sitting in the plastic chair beside Victor's bed, reading aloud from the books Taehyun brought me. He was still in the coma. Still pale. Still connected to machines that beeped and hummed and whispered their constant, anxious vigil.
Sara was there when I arrived.
She was sitting in the chair I usually occupied, her knees drawn to her chest, her forehead resting on the edge of Victor's bed. Her hand was wrapped around his—limp, unresponsive, but warm.
She didn't look up when I entered. Didn't move.
"Sara?"
"They're sending me away."
Her voice was muffled, flat. Dead.
I walked to her slowly, lowering myself into the visitor's chair beside her. "What do you mean?"
"My father found out." She lifted her head, and my heart clenched at the sight of her face—pale, swollen, tear-streaked. "About the shooting. About Victor. About everything." She laughed, a broken, bitter sound. "He said I'm not safe here. He said—" Her voice cracked. "He said he won't accept a bodyguard as my partner. Especially not one who's in a coma. Who knows for how long."
I reached for her hand, my fingers wrapping around hers. "Sara—"
"They're sending me to London. To stay with my aunt. For the rest of the semester. Maybe longer." Her eyes were fixed on Victor's face, on the pale, slack features that had once been so sharp, so alive. "He said I need to be with people who can protect me. People who aren't—" She swallowed. "Who aren't like him."
"Like him?"
"Broken. Dangerous. Unpredictable." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Expendable."
The word hung in the air between us, ugly and wrong.
Victor wasn't expendable. He was a man who had eaten a raspberry and looked like he'd discovered a new emotion. He was a man who had crouched beside my bed during a thunderstorm and told me that fear wasn't rational—that's why it was fear.
He was a man who had taken bullets for us.
For me.
For her.
"When?" I asked.
"Tomorrow. First flight."
I pulled her close, my arm around her shoulders, my cheek pressed to her hair. She was shaking—fine tremors that ran through her whole body, like a leaf in a storm.
"Tell him," I whispered.
"What?"
"Before you go. Tell him how you feel."
She pulled back, her eyes wide. "He's in a coma. He can't hear me."
"You don't know that."
"He can hear you." I gripped her hands, willing her to believe. "I've read about it. Coma patients. Sometimes they can hear. Sometimes they remember. Even if he doesn't wake up tomorrow, even if it takes weeks or months—he'll carry your words with him. He'll know."
Sara looked at Victor, at his still face, at the machines that measured his breaths.
"He'll probably tell me I'm a security risk," she whispered.
"Then he'll be awake to say it."
A sob escaped her, raw and desperate. She leaned forward, pressing her forehead to Victor's hand, her lips moving in words I couldn't hear.
I stood, backing toward the door, giving them privacy.
The last thing I saw before I closed it was Sara's hand, still wrapped around his, and the single tear that slipped down her cheek and landed on his pale, motionless fingers.
---
That night, I lay in Taehyun's arms, staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep.
"Sara's leaving tomorrow."
His hand stilled on my back. "I know."
"He's sending her to London. Her father."
Taehyun was quiet for a moment. Then: "I could interfere."
"No." I turned my head, meeting his eyes in the dim light. "She needs to go. She needs to be somewhere safe. Somewhere her father can protect her."
"I can protect her."
"This isn't about protection." I reached up, tracing the line of his jaw. "It's about control. He's scared. He almost lost her. He's doing what he thinks is right."
"It's wrong."
"Maybe." I let my hand fall, my fingers finding his. "But it's his choice. And hers. She's going."
He was quiet for a long moment. Then: "What about Victor?"
I thought about the hospital room. About Sara's whispered words. About the hand that didn't squeeze back.
"I don't know," I admitted. "I don't know if he'll wake up. I don't know if he'll remember. I don't know if he'll care."
"He'll care."
"You don't know that."
He pulled me closer, his lips pressing to my forehead. "I know him. He's not as cold as he pretends to be."
I closed my eyes, letting his warmth seep into my bones.
"She loves him," I whispered. "I don't know if she even realizes it. But she does."
"Then she'll come back."
"You don't know that either."
His arms tightened around me. "Then I'll bring her back myself. If that's what it takes."
I smiled against his chest, tears pricking at my eyes.
"You're very dramatic," I murmured.
"I'm very in love," he countered. "There's a difference."
I didn't answer. I just held him, listening to his heartbeat, letting the rhythm lull me toward sleep.
---
The news came three days later.
I was in the kitchen, pushing eggs around a plate, not hungry but trying. Taehyun was on the phone in the study, his voice low, urgent. Junho was at the table, reading something on his tablet, his brow furrowed.
My phone buzzed.
A photo.
Jihan, holding a tiny bundle wrapped in white, his face lit up like the sun. Arshi beside him, pale but radiant, her hand on the baby's head.
And a caption: Jison. Born this morning. 7 pounds, 3 ounces. Healthy. Perfect. We're over the moon.
I stared at the image, my heart swelling, tears streaming down my cheeks.
"What?" Junho looked up, alarmed. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing." I turned the phone toward him, my voice breaking. "Everything is right."
He looked at the photo, and his face transformed—the usual sharp edges softening, his eyes widening.
"Damn," he breathed. "Look at that little guy."
Taehyun appeared in the doorway, drawn by the commotion. I held up the phone, and he crossed the room in three strides, taking it from my hand.
He stared at the image for a long moment.
Then, quietly: "Jison."
"Jihan and Arshi's son," I said. "He's here. He's okay."
Taehyun handed the phone back to me, his expression unreadable. But his hand found mine, his fingers lacing through, and he held on tight.
"Good," he said. "That's good."
Junho was already texting, his thumbs flying across the screen. "I'm sending a gift. The biggest, most obnoxious gift I can find. A gold-plated rattle. A diamond-encrusted onesie. A—"
"Junho."
"What? He's the first baby in the family. He needs to know his uncles are insane."
I laughed, the sound wet and wobbly, and leaned into Taehyun's side.
"He's beautiful," I said.
"He looks like a potato."
"Junho!"
"What? All newborns look like potatoes. It's a scientific fact."
Taehyun's arm slid around my waist, pulling me closer. "He looks like hope," he said quietly. "He looks like a future."
I looked up at him, at the man who had stormed into my life with a gun and a smirk, at the man who knelt for me, at the man who held me in the dark.
"Yeah," I whispered. "He does."
---
That night, I called Arshi.
She answered on the second ring, her voice tired but glowing.
"He's perfect," I said. "Absolutely perfect."
"He's loud," she laughed. "And hungry. And very, very demanding."
"Just like his father."
"Just like his father," she agreed.
We talked for an hour—about the birth, about the hospital, about the overwhelming, terrifying, beautiful weight of holding a new life in your arms. She sent more photos. I cried. She cried. We laughed at each other for crying.
"Jihan hasn't slept," she said. "He just stands over the bassinet, watching Jison breathe. I have to drag him away to eat."
"He's a father now. It's his job to worry."
"He's going to be insufferable."
"He's going to be wonderful."
She was quiet for a moment. Then: "I wish you were here."
"Me too."
"Come visit. When things settle. When the world stops trying to kill us."
I thought about the mansion, about the guards, about the constant, low-grade hum of danger that followed my husband like a shadow.
"Soon," I said. "I promise."
"Hold him to that," Arshi said. "Taehyun. He's the one with the power."
"He's the one with the planes," I agreed.
We said goodbye, and I lay in the dark, staring at the ceiling, thinking about new life and old fears and the strange, winding path that had brought us all here.
The world was still dangerous. The Lee Consortium was still a threat. Victor was still in a coma, and Sara was in London, and nothing was certain.
But Jison was alive.
And that, for now, was enough.
---
Days turned into weeks.
Victor didn't wake up.
Sara called every night, her voice strained, her updates clipped. Her father had enrolled her in a university program in London, something to keep her busy, something to keep her mind off the man in the hospital bed. She was going through the motions, she said. Pretending to be fine. Pretending not to count the days since she'd last seen his face.
"He still hasn't woken up," she said one night, her voice flat.
"I know."
"The doctors say his brain activity is improving. But they don't know when. They don't know if."
"They will."
"He will wake up, Sara. And when he does, you're going to be there."
"I'm not there now."
"You will be."
She was quiet for a long moment. Then, softly: "I told him. Before I left. I whispered it in his ear."
"What did you say?"
"I told him I loved him." Her voice cracked. "I told him I loved him, and I was sorry I never said it when he could hear me, and I was sorry I was leaving, and I was sorry for everything."
"Sara—"
"He didn't squeeze my hand." The words came out in a rush, raw and wounded. "He didn't move. He didn't—" She stopped, her breath hitching. "He didn't hear me. He couldn't. He was too far gone."
"He heard you."
"You don't know that."
"I know Victor." I gripped the phone tighter, willing her to believe. "And I know that somewhere, deep inside, he's fighting. He's fighting to come back to you. And when he does—"
"When he does, he'll probably tell me I'm a security risk."
I laughed, the sound wet and broken. "Probably."
"I miss him."
"I know."