Mara stepped closer and checked the monitor, then lifted one of Ethan’s eyelids briefly with clinical care. “His vitals are stable.”
“He opened his eyes,” I said before I could stop myself.
Her hand paused.
For one brief moment, something flickered across her face.
Not disbelief.
Not surprise.
Recognition.
Then it disappeared.
“Mrs. Thornton,” she said quietly, “people in your position often hope for signs.”
“I know what I saw.”
“I’m not saying you don’t.” Her voice lowered. “I’m saying this house has many ears.”
The air left my lungs.
Mara adjusted Ethan’s blanket, though it did not need adjusting.
Then she said, so softly I almost missed it, “Did he speak?”
My fingers curled at my sides.
I looked at her.
She did not look like an enemy. She looked exhausted. Frightened, even. But in that house, I had already learned appearances meant little.
“No,” I lied.
Mara studied me for a long second.
Then she nodded, as if I had passed some test neither of us had named.
“If anything changes,” she said, louder now, “press the call button immediately.”
She picked up the tray and walked toward the door.
Before leaving, she turned back.
“And Mrs. Thornton?”
“Yes?”
“Be careful what you hope for in this family.”
The door closed behind her.
I stood alone with my husband—my stranger of a husband—and realized I had entered a marriage built not around love, but around secrets.
That evening, dinner was served in a dining room long enough to make conversation feel like a performance.
Vivian sat at the head of the table beneath a portrait of a stern-looking man with silver hair and hard eyes. Jason sat to her right, relaxed, handsome, perfectly at ease in a navy suit that probably cost more than my father’s car. I was seated opposite him, still wearing the white dress because no one had told me where my luggage had gone.
