Semua Bab The Mistress: Bab 111 - Bab 116

“She isn’t dying, Zander. But I need you to sit down before the floor becomes the only thing holding you up.”Dr. Aris didn’t look like the clinical, unshakable force of nature that had dismantled the Blackwood empire two years ago. Her white coat was rumpled, her glasses perched precariously on the bridge of her nose, and her eyes—usually sharp enough to dissect a lie at fifty paces—were swimming in a glassy, bewildered light.Zander didn’t sit. He couldn’t. He stood in the center of the private trauma bay, the sterile LED lights reflecting off the dried mud on his boots and the salt-stain on his black funeral coat. He looked like a man who had been dragged through the gears of a machine and emerged barely recognizable as human. His hands were still curled into fists, his knuckles white from the hours spent gripping the edges of the hospital chair.“Is it the heart?” Zander’s voice was a jagged rasp, stripped of all hope. “Did her heart finally give out? I told you, Aris. I told you s

“If you try to serve Marcus that kale-quinoa sludge, Zander, he will literally hack our bank accounts and delete our existence just to spite your cooking.”I was leaning against the porch railing, watching Zander squint at a bowl of greens as if he were trying to negotiate a ceasefire with a salad. He had a wooden spoon in one hand and a look of deep, existential crisis on his face.“It’s healthy, Vic! Aris sent a three-page email about ‘anti-inflammatory superfoods’ for the second trimester,” Zander defended, waving the spoon toward the driveway where a dust cloud signaled the arrival of our only two friends in the world. “And besides, Marcus lives on energy drinks and spite. He needs a vegetable.”“He needs a burger and a cigarette, but he’ll settle for not being poisoned by your ‘healing path,’” I laughed, the sound feeling lighter in my chest than it had in years. I walked over, snagged a piece of kale, and made a face. “Yeah, don’t give him that. He’s carrying the papers. You don’

R18“Put that down, Gabriel! That is not a ‘structural reinforcement,’ that is the leg of an antique chair, and it does not need to be painted Azure Blue.”The studio was a cathedral of light, the salt-cracked windows of the coastal estate having been replaced by massive panes of industrial glass that invited the Atlantic Ocean inside. Victoria sat perched on the top rung of a wooden ladder, her hair tied back in a messy knot, a streak of Gold Leaf shimmering across her cheekbone. She looked down with a mock-stern expression at the three-year-old boy currently attempting to ‘renovate’ the furniture.Gabriel Ethan looked up, his dark curls a tangled mess, clutching a thick paintbrush like a scepter. He had Zander’s defiant jaw and Victoria’s piercing, observant eyes. “It needs color, Mama. The chair is sad.”“The chair is French, Gabriel. It’s supposed to be moody,” a deep, rumbling voice chuckled from the doorway.Zander stood there, leaning against the frame. He looked younger than he