Chapter 3

The hospital chapel was dimly lit, a soft amber glow spilling from wall sconces onto the polished wooden pews. The scent of old incense lingered faintly in the air, soothing, almost sacred. It was the kind of quiet that wrapped around the soul like a wool blanket, warm, heavy, absolute.

Cybil Ashcroft stepped inside, her heels hushed by the carpet. She exhaled a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, the weight of the day pressing into her chest like a boulder.

Daniel’s prognosis remained uncertain. The doctors had said things like “hours,” “trauma,” and “massive blood loss.” Words that spun like autumn leaves in her mind, never settling, never stopping.

She needed to think. To be still.

Her eyes swept across the room and paused.

A young woman sat hunched on the front pew, shoulders shaking, hands covering her face. She looked small in the vast stillness of the chapel, swallowed by grief. Cybil hesitated, half-ready to leave, but something in her, the mother perhaps, kept her rooted.

Instead, she slipped into a rear pew and knelt, bowing her head. The silence offered no answers. It never did. But it left room for questions.

Why him? Why now? What next?

After a moment, Cybil sat back, watching the flicker of votive candles at the altar. A single name slipped past her lips in a whispered prayer.

“Daniel.”

A minute passed. Then another.

The young woman sobbed quietly. Cybil closed her eyes, her heart twisting. She couldn’t ignore the pain just steps away from her own.

She rose and approached slowly, each step light and careful. She stopped a few feet behind the woman.

“Excuse me, dear,” she said gently. “Are you alright?”

The girl startled, wiping her eyes and turning. For a heartbeat, they only looked at each other, two women brought low by grief in different forms.

Recognition flickered in the young woman’s eyes.

“Oh, I know you,” she said, voice raw. “You’re Cybil Ashcroft. We met once at the Silver Rose Gala, didn’t we?”

Cybil blinked. “Yes, yes, I remember. And you’re Laya Kerrigan. John’s daughter.”

Laya gave a small, shaky nod. “That’s right.”

Cybil’s expression softened, her maternal instinct stirring. “I heard about your father. I’m truly sorry for your loss. He was a fine man.”

“Thank you,” Laya murmured. “He left a big hole. I’ve been trying to hold everything together since, but…”

She trailed off, brushing at her face with embarrassment. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to fall apart in public.”

“You’re not,” Cybil said firmly, sitting beside her. “This is the one room in this godforsaken building where falling apart is allowed. We come here when we’ve got no one else to cry to.”

Silence stretched between them, companionable and heavy.

“I remember your son too,” Laya said softly. “Daniel. We were seated near each other at the gala. He was very handsome.”

A ghost of a smile touched Cybil’s lips. “He was. Still is, if he pulls through this.”

Laya’s expression shifted. “Pulls through? Is he—?”

Cybil’s shoulders sagged. “He was in a car accident this morning. They’re operating now. The injuries are catastrophic.”

Laya’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry.”

“Thank you,” Cybil said, voice quiet. “He’s all I have. The only son worth the name.”

Laya hesitated. “I thought you had two sons?”

Cybil snorted, uncharacteristically coarse. “I do. James. A walking disaster. If Daniel doesn’t survive, the estate and company default to him, and that would be the beginning of the end.”

Laya frowned. “There’s no way to stop that?”

“I called our family solicitor. Asked about loopholes, trusts, anything. But without a wife, or children, or someone Daniel named as heir, James gets everything.”

Cybil glanced toward the altar. “Everything Daniel built, everything his father left us, James would burn it all to the ground.”

Laya stared down at her hands, fingers twisted together. Her voice was barely a whisper. “I know what it’s like, running out of options.”

Cybil turned to her. “You’re going through something too.”

It wasn’t a question.

Laya nodded, eyes filling again. “My brother. Kyle. He’s in long-term care. It’s degenerative, genetic. He’s getting worse, and nothing’s helping. Yesterday, they said the only options left are experimental treatments, none of them covered by insurance.”

“Expensive?” Cybil asked gently.

“Ridiculously. And just when I thought I could cover it through my father’s estate, we discovered the company’s financial director had embezzled billions and fled the country. It’s all gone.”

Cybil stared at her. “I’m so sorry. That’s unimaginable.”

Laya gave a broken laugh. “Isn’t it?”

They sat in silence again, the chapel holding their pain like a sealed jar.

But Cybil’s mind had begun to stir.

She glanced at Laya again. Young, poised, intelligent, kind, unattached.

Her heart gave a strange little jump.

“I know this might sound absurd,” she said, her voice measured. “But do you believe in fate?”

Laya blinked. “Maybe. I don’t know.”

Cybil nodded slowly, almost to herself.

“You love your brother,” she continued.

“More than anything.”

“And if there were a way to save him, any way, you’d take it?”

Laya turned to face her fully, sensing a shift in the air. “Yes. Of course.”

Cybil leaned back slightly, her gaze sharpening.

“Then maybe we can help each other.”

Laya’s brows drew together. “What do you mean?”

“I mean I’m desperate to protect my family’s legacy,” Cybil said, “and you’re desperate to save your brother’s life.”

Laya’s lips parted, but no words came.

“What if,” Cybil continued carefully, “we found a way to bind our families, legally, financially, permanently.”

The words drifted through the chapel like drifting ash.

“You’re not suggesting—”

“A marriage,” Cybil said, calm as moonlight. “Between you and Daniel.”

Laya stared at her. “That’s… mad.”

“Maybe. But is it madder than watching everything fall apart for both of us?”

Laya looked away, heart racing. It was madness.

And yet…

In the flickering hush of the chapel, something passed between them.

Two women. Two broken families. One impossible opportunity.

And perhaps, just perhaps, a way forward.