Chapter 13
*(Evelyn's POV)*
I didn't go back to the hospital.
Dr. Reeves called twice more — Luca was stable, but asking for me. I declined. I'd done what needed to be done. He was alive. My conscience was clear.
*This doesn't change anything.*
I repeated it like a mantra through my days. In meetings. At dinners with Sebastian. In the quiet moments before sleep when my hand could still feel the phantom warmth of his grip.
Three weeks later, my grandfather recovered enough to return to the office. Over lunch, he studied me with those piercing eyes.
"You went to see him."
It wasn't a question. I didn't insult him by denying it.
"Once."
"And?"
"And nothing. It's over."
He set down his fork. "Evelyn. I'm going to tell you something I should have told your mother thirty years ago." He paused. "Holding onto anger is exhausting. But so is pretending you feel nothing."
"I *do* feel nothing."
"Child." His voice was impossibly gentle. "You feel everything. You always have. It's why you survived him — and it's why leaving him nearly killed you."
My eyes burned. I refused to blink.
"What are you saying? That I should forgive him?"
"I'm saying that forgiveness isn't about him. It's about you." He reached across the table and took my hand. "Your mother forgave him with her dying breath. Not because he deserved it — but because she refused to let him poison her last moments." He squeezed. "Don't let him poison the rest of your life. Whether that means forgiving him or not — make sure the choice is yours. Not his."
That night, I went to my mother's grave.
I sat on the grass beside her headstone, knees pulled to my chest, and talked to her the way I used to — about work, about Sebastian, about how the garden at grandfather's estate was blooming exactly the way she would have loved.
And then I told her about Luca in that hospital room. About my hand in his. About how the fury had melted out of him at my touch, the same way it always had.
"I don't love him anymore," I said to the marble stone. "But I think part of me is still angry enough that it feels like love. And I don't want that."
The wind rustled through the cemetery trees. No answer. But I felt lighter.
I stood, brushed the grass from my pants, and turned to leave.
Luca was standing at the cemetery gate.
He was out of the hospital — thin, pale, wearing a coat that hung too loose on his frame. He looked like he'd walked here. His car was nowhere in sight.
"How long have you been there?" I asked, my voice sharper than I intended.
"Long enough." He didn't come closer. Stayed at the gate, hands in his pockets, respecting the distance. "I wasn't following you. I come here. Most nights."
I stared at him. "You come to my mother's grave?"
"I bring flowers." He gestured vaguely. "Gardenias. You mentioned once that she liked them."
I hadn't noticed the fresh gardenias at the base of the headstone. But now I turned and saw them — white, perfect, a small bouquet with no card.
My chest constricted.
"Evelyn." His voice was quiet, broken in a way I'd never heard from the powerful man I'd married. "I'm not here to ask for anything. I just need to say one thing, and then I'll go."
I waited.
"I'm selling the company."
I blinked. "What?"
"The board is considering other options, but I'm stepping down. The episodes—" He swallowed. "I can't control them anymore. Not without you. And I won't use that as leverage to keep you." His eyes met mine — clear, lucid, agonized. "I won't be the reason you stay. Not again."
"Luca—"
"I'm signing everything over. The pharmaceutical division you already have. The rest goes to a trust. I'm leaving the city." He took a breath. "I just wanted you to know — not because I want anything from you — just so you know. You were never the placeholder. You were the only real thing in my life. And I destroyed you anyway."
He turned to go.
"Wait," I said.
He stopped. Didn't turn.
"Where will you go?" I didn't know why I asked.
"Somewhere I can't hurt anyone." His voice was barely a whisper. "Somewhere quiet enough that the fury might let me rest."
He walked away into the darkness, and I let him go.
But that night, for the first time in months, I didn't dream of the rooftop, or the hospital, or my mother's last breath.
I dreamed of gardenias.
I didn't go back to the hospital.
Dr. Reeves called twice more — Luca was stable, but asking for me. I declined. I'd done what needed to be done. He was alive. My conscience was clear.
*This doesn't change anything.*
I repeated it like a mantra through my days. In meetings. At dinners with Sebastian. In the quiet moments before sleep when my hand could still feel the phantom warmth of his grip.
Three weeks later, my grandfather recovered enough to return to the office. Over lunch, he studied me with those piercing eyes.
"You went to see him."
It wasn't a question. I didn't insult him by denying it.
"Once."
"And?"
"And nothing. It's over."
He set down his fork. "Evelyn. I'm going to tell you something I should have told your mother thirty years ago." He paused. "Holding onto anger is exhausting. But so is pretending you feel nothing."
"I *do* feel nothing."
"Child." His voice was impossibly gentle. "You feel everything. You always have. It's why you survived him — and it's why leaving him nearly killed you."
My eyes burned. I refused to blink.
"What are you saying? That I should forgive him?"
"I'm saying that forgiveness isn't about him. It's about you." He reached across the table and took my hand. "Your mother forgave him with her dying breath. Not because he deserved it — but because she refused to let him poison her last moments." He squeezed. "Don't let him poison the rest of your life. Whether that means forgiving him or not — make sure the choice is yours. Not his."
That night, I went to my mother's grave.
I sat on the grass beside her headstone, knees pulled to my chest, and talked to her the way I used to — about work, about Sebastian, about how the garden at grandfather's estate was blooming exactly the way she would have loved.
And then I told her about Luca in that hospital room. About my hand in his. About how the fury had melted out of him at my touch, the same way it always had.
"I don't love him anymore," I said to the marble stone. "But I think part of me is still angry enough that it feels like love. And I don't want that."
The wind rustled through the cemetery trees. No answer. But I felt lighter.
I stood, brushed the grass from my pants, and turned to leave.
Luca was standing at the cemetery gate.
He was out of the hospital — thin, pale, wearing a coat that hung too loose on his frame. He looked like he'd walked here. His car was nowhere in sight.
"How long have you been there?" I asked, my voice sharper than I intended.
"Long enough." He didn't come closer. Stayed at the gate, hands in his pockets, respecting the distance. "I wasn't following you. I come here. Most nights."
I stared at him. "You come to my mother's grave?"
"I bring flowers." He gestured vaguely. "Gardenias. You mentioned once that she liked them."
I hadn't noticed the fresh gardenias at the base of the headstone. But now I turned and saw them — white, perfect, a small bouquet with no card.
My chest constricted.
"Evelyn." His voice was quiet, broken in a way I'd never heard from the powerful man I'd married. "I'm not here to ask for anything. I just need to say one thing, and then I'll go."
I waited.
"I'm selling the company."
I blinked. "What?"
"The board is considering other options, but I'm stepping down. The episodes—" He swallowed. "I can't control them anymore. Not without you. And I won't use that as leverage to keep you." His eyes met mine — clear, lucid, agonized. "I won't be the reason you stay. Not again."
"Luca—"
"I'm signing everything over. The pharmaceutical division you already have. The rest goes to a trust. I'm leaving the city." He took a breath. "I just wanted you to know — not because I want anything from you — just so you know. You were never the placeholder. You were the only real thing in my life. And I destroyed you anyway."
He turned to go.
"Wait," I said.
He stopped. Didn't turn.
"Where will you go?" I didn't know why I asked.
"Somewhere I can't hurt anyone." His voice was barely a whisper. "Somewhere quiet enough that the fury might let me rest."
He walked away into the darkness, and I let him go.
But that night, for the first time in months, I didn't dream of the rooftop, or the hospital, or my mother's last breath.
I dreamed of gardenias.