05. The Last Request

One month had passed since the disastrous night of the Vanguard Gala, a month of complete, echoing silence inside the penthouse. Darel had kept his word; he never returned, leaving Giselle like a ghost in a gilded cage. But the sudden, frantic phone call from the King family lawyer had broken the isolation, shattering her quiet routine.

Giselle walked quickly through the sterile, brightly lit corridors of New York Presbyterian Hospital. The heavy scent of antiseptic replaced the smell of lilies she had grown to despise, and the squeak of her flats against the linoleum floor echoed her racing heartbeat.

Grandpa Arthur King, had suffered a massive, sudden stroke. He was the only member of that cold family who had ever shown Giselle a shred of genuine warmth, treating her like a beloved granddaughter rather than a corporate transaction.

As she rounded the corner toward the Intensive Care Unit, she spotted a familiar, rigid silhouette standing near the vending machines.

Darel.

He looked uncharacteristically worn out. His crisp white shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, his dark hair messy, and dark circles shadowed his piercing eyes. Yet, the moment his gaze landed on Giselle walking toward him, his posture instantly corrected itself into a shield of pure ice. He stepped forward, intercepting her before she could reach the door to the patient's room. His hand shot out, firmly gripping her wrist to pull her into a quiet alcove.

"You're late," Darel whispered, his voice a harsh, low baritone.

Giselle pulled her wrist from his grip, her chin lifting defiantly. "The traffic from the Upper East Side was heavy, Darel. How is Grandpa?"

Darel didn't answer her question. Instead, he leaned in closer, his eyes cold and transactional as they swept over her face. "Listen to me very carefully, Giselle. Grandpa’s consciousness is fading, and the doctors say he doesn't have much time left. He has been asking for you. For us." He clenched his jaw, his voice dropping into a warning hiss. "We are going to go in there, and we are going to look completely happy and harmonious. I don't care about the gala, and I don't care how much I can't stand to look at you right now. You will smile, you will hold my hand, and you will play the part of my devoted wife. Do you understand me? This is solely for Grandpa."

"I don't need your instructions to love Grandpa, Darel," she said flatly, pushing past him toward the heavy wooden door of the private suite.

Inside, the room was dimly lit, dominated by the rhythmic, mechanical hum of the heart monitor. Arthur King lay beneath the white sheets, looking frail, his once-powerful frame reduced to a shadow of its former self. But as the door clicked shut, his eyelids fluttered open. A faint, weak smile touched his pale lips when he recognized Giselle.

"Gigi... my sweet girl," Arthur rasped, his voice barely a whisper.

Giselle’s heart shattered. She rushed to the bedside, dropping to her knees and gently taking his frail, trembling hand in hers. "I'm here, Grandpa. I'm right here."

Darel walked up behind her, placing a heavy, performance-ready hand on Giselle’s shoulder. The touch felt like fire against her skin, but she didn't pull away, forcing herself to endure it for the dying old man.

Arthur’s fading gaze shifted from Giselle to his grandson. With immense effort, he lifted his other hand, placing it weakly over theirs, binding their hands together over the hospital blanket. His breathing grew shallow, the heart monitor chirping at a slower, terrifying pace.

"Darel..." Arthur choked out, his eyes suddenly burning with a final, desperate intensity. "Listen to me, boy. The company... the money... it means nothing if you lose your soul. Gigi is a treasure. She is the best thing that ever happened to this family." He coughed weakly, his grip tightening with the last remnants of his strength. "Take care of your wife, Darel. Protect her. Cherish her. Promise me... promise your old grandfather you will never let her go."

A heavy, suffocating silence filled the room. Darel’s hand on Giselle's shoulder stiffened, his fingers digging into her flesh. He stared at his grandfather, his face a mask of unreadable emotion, before finally swallowing his pride. "I promise, Grandpa," Darel lied smoothly, his voice steady. "I'll take care of her."

Arthur let out a long, peaceful sigh. His eyes slowly closed, his hand relaxing and slipping from theirs. A second later, the heart monitor emitted a sharp, continuous, agonizing flatline beep.

Giselle buried her face in the edge of the mattress, the tears finally flowing freely down her cheeks. She wept bitterly, not just for the loss of a good man, but because she knew that the last shield protecting her from Darel's cruelty had just vanished.

***

The funeral was a massive, high-society affair, packed with politicians and CEOs. Giselle stood by Darel's side under a large black umbrella, playing the grieving, harmonious wife perfectly for the flashing cameras of the press. Julia Lee stood a few yards away, dressed in proper black mourning clothes, her smug, watchful eyes locked onto Darel the entire time.

Once the reception concluded and the guests dispersed, Giselle returned to the penthouse alone. She didn't even have time to take off her black mourning coat before the private elevator doors chimed and opened.

Darel walked out. He didn't look sad. In fact, his eyes were sharper, freer, as if a massive weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He didn't waste a single second. He walked straight into the grand living room, stepped up to the marble kitchen counter, and pulled a thick white envelope from his inner breast pocket, sliding it across the pristine surface toward her.

Giselle looked down at the crisp white paper. She already knew what it was.

"Grandpa is gone, and his estate is fully settled. My position as CEO is legally locked in," Darel said, his voice flat, completely devoid of any emotion or remorse. "The show is over, Giselle. I am done playing house with a woman I find utterly embarrassing. I have no desire to remain in this farce of a marriage for another day."

He tapped the envelope with his manicured finger. "Those are the divorce papers. I’ve already signed them. You will receive a generous settlement from the King estate, enough to ensure you don't beg your father for crumbs. Sign it, and you can pack your things."

Giselle stared at the document. A month ago, this would have completely destroyed her. She would have begged, cried, and pleaded for him to remember his promise to his grandfather. But as she looked down at her hands—noticing the faint scar where the tight wedding ring had once torn her skin—she realized something profound.

The crushing weight of his rejection didn't break her this time. The foolish, desperate love she had carried for Darel King for years had finally died on the hospital floor alongside his grandfather.

Instead, a cold, fierce spark of determination ignited in her chest.

She looked up, meeting Darel's icy glare. To his utter shock, Giselle didn't shed a single tear. Her soft lips slowly curled into a calm, fiercely sarcastic smile that made his breath hitch.

"Of course, Darel," Giselle said, her voice incredibly smooth, steady, and loud. "Let's end this joke."

She grabbed a sleek black pen from the counter, flipped to the final page of the document, and signed her name with a sharp, aggressive flourish. She slid the papers back across the marble, took off the tight platinum wedding ring, and let it drop onto the counter with a sharp, metallic clink.

She was done begging. It was time to change.