Chapter 239
“Julian!”
Skye rushed to him, dropping to her knees. His skin was clammy, cold sweat soaking through his silk shirt. His eyes were wide, fixed on the ceiling, seeing nothing but the lack of air. His lungs were failing him—fluid rising, drowning him on dry land.
He couldn’t speak. One trembling hand flailed out, knocking a stack of books over as he pointed desperately toward the mahogany desk.
Skye followed his hand. A small orange bottle sat near the lamp.
She scrambled up, grabbed the bottle, and twisted the cap off. Her hands shook, spilling two pills into her palm. She rushed back to him.
“Open your mouth,” she commanded, her voice sharp in the quiet room.
He struggled, his jaw locked tight in panic. The air hunger drove him into a frenzy, a physiological terror that overrode all logic. Skye forced her fingers between his teeth, pried his mouth open, and shoved the pills in. She grabbed the half-empty glass of water from the side table and tipped it to his lips, massaging his throat to make him swallow.
“Breathe,” she whispered, placing her hand on his chest. “In. Out. With me.”
His heart was beating so fast it felt like a hummingbird trapped in a cage. She could feel the rattle in his chest, the brokenness of his body warring with the chemical relief of the medication.
They stayed like that for what felt like hours, though it was probably only minutes. Slowly, the terrifying wheeze began to subside as the sedatives took hold, dampening the panic response to his suffocating lungs. The blue tint faded from his lips, replaced by a ghostly pallor. His breathing evened out, turning into ragged, exhausted gasps.
He didn’t move. He just lay there, staring at the ceiling, completely undone.
Skye sat back on her heels, her own adrenaline crashing. She looked down at the bottle in her hand.
She expected to see high-dose painkillers. Or perhaps a bronchodilator.
She turned the bottle toward a lightning flash.
Alprazolam. 1 mg.
A heavy sedative. A bandage for the terror of dying, not a cure for the death itself.
Julian slowly turned his head. His eyes met hers.
In the boardroom, Julian Vance looked at people like they were math problems he had already solved. But right now, on the floor of his library, his eyes were shattered glass. There was no calculation—only raw, bleeding shame.
𝘚𝘵o𝗿𝘪𝗲𝗌 𝘵𝘩аt 𝗐іl𝗅 h𝗼o𝘬 𝘆𝗈𝘶 o𝗻 𝖻𝗲l𝘯𝘰𝘷е𝗅s.сo𝗆
He tried to sit up, his arms shaking under his weight. He snatched the bottle from Skye’s hand, his movements jerky and defensive. He reached for the bloody handkerchief, crumpling it into his fist to hide the evidence.
“Get out,” he rasped. His voice was a wreck—wet and gurgling.
Skye didn’t move.
“I said get out, Skye.” He tried to put the mask back on, tried to summon the arrogance, but it crumbled. He coughed again, a weak, pathetic sound that brought a fresh grimace of pain to his face.
“No,” Skye said softly.
She reached out and took his hand. His fingers were ice cold. He flinched as if she had burned him, trying to pull away, but she held on.
“I know what the ceiling looks like at three in the morning,” she whispered. “I know how heavy the air gets when you’re the only one awake in a house full of ghosts.”
Julian went still.
He looked at her, really looked at her, searching for pity. He found none. He found only recognition.
“Everyone thinks I’m the puppet master,” he murmured, his voice barely audible over the rain. “They think I sit in this tower and move the pieces because I enjoy the game. But I don’t play because I want to win, Skye. I play because if I stop… the noise gets too loud. And the silence… the silence reminds me my clock is ticking faster than anyone else’s.”