Eleanor's POV
I couldn't tear my eyes away from the screen.
There, beneath the cold flickering of fluorescent lights in the hospital lobby, I sat with my body upright but my spirit sunken, watching them replay his fall again and again. Centre Velmon, earlier today. The very place where he stood just hours ago—speaking to the nation, proud, steady, commanding. Now reduced to thirty-two looping seconds of collapse and speculation.
The news anchor wore a sombre look that didn't reach her eyes. "Sources suggest it may be a reaction to an unknown substance," she said, her tone laced with the kind of intrigue that feeds public chaos. "The presidency remains silent on the ongoing accusations. Could this be related?"
I clenched my jaw. Hard. My fingers balled into fists on my lap.
What did I expect? Of course, they would twist it. They always do. They couldn't just say the President collapsed—they had to attach a scandal to it. Paint Devon as weak. As compromised. Even as a liar.
I blinked, the sting behind my eyes becoming harder to ignore.
"Turn it off," I muttered.
The guard next to me didn't hear. I turned, sharper now. "Please—get someone to turn it off."
He nodded and moved toward the reception desk. But I didn't wait. My legs moved on their own. I needed to breathe. I needed to know. I needed something—anything—from the doctors. I hadn't heard a word since Franco went in with him. Silence is its kind of torture.
I turned toward the hallway that led to where they were keeping him.
I hadn't even taken a full step when I heard it.
"Ma'am…"
Soft. Timid. Worn around the edges.
The voice was fragile. Familiar.
I turned, my breath catching in my throat before I even saw him.
Jimmie.
He stood just inside the entrance, hood drawn over his messy hair, his sweats wrinkled, his face pale and pulled tight. His presence alone cracked something open in me. I hadn't seen him since the abduction, since everything went dark.
"Jimmie…" I said his name like it anchored me to something real. I crossed the space between us and pulled him into my arms.
It was instinct—like holding onto a piece of the world before it disappeared entirely.
He didn't hug me back at first.
There was tension in his frame, something unreadable, something off. But then, slowly, his arms wrapped around me. The warmth was brief, but I took it like a lifeline.
"Oh, Jimmie, you're here…" I whispered. "You have no idea how much I need you right now."
His voice cracked as he pulled back. "How is he?"
I looked into his eyes—those striking green eyes that used to sparkle with mischief and energy. Now they were clouded. Dull. And beneath the concern, I saw something flicker.
Guilt?
I wasn't sure. I didn't have time to be.
Because just then, the emergency doors swung open with a sharp, metallic sound that made my entire body stiffen.
Franco stepped out.
And I felt the blood leave my face.
He strolled, his expression unreadable at first—but then I saw it. Pain. A thunderstorm behind his eyes. His jaw was tight, like he had to physically hold something inside. Rage. Despair. Maybe both.
"Franco," I breathed, almost inaudibly.
My heart thundered in my chest. My vision narrowed to just his face.
"Franco… how is he?"
He didn't answer.
I asked again, this time louder, more desperate. "Franco—please—how is he?"
He wouldn't meet my gaze. Instead, his eyes flicked to Jimmie.
And something about the way he looked at him like sizing him up, or recognising something unwanted, sent a shiver down me.
I didn't have the space to unpack it.
"Franco—" I stepped closer, my voice trembling.
And then he looked at me.
Finally.
And I knew.
The look in his eyes… I'd never seen that look before. Not even when Devon was shot on the campaign trail. Not even in war zones. This look? This was the look of someone who'd just watched hope die.
"No," I whispered.
He didn't say a word.
"No, no, no…" My knees buckled. My lungs seized.
I let out a choked scream so raw, so guttural, it echoed down the pristine hallway and bounced off the walls like grief itself wanted to run wild.
Jimmie caught me, held me steady as I shook and sobbed.
"It can't be," I kept whispering. "It can't be…"
I pressed my hands to my face, trying to hide from the reality crashing over me.
Everything blurred—the hospital sounds, the voices, the murmurs. It was just me. And the thought of Devon's body, still and cold.
But then I stood. My limbs were weak. My soul is screaming.
"I want to see him," I said hoarsely.
Franco hesitated.
"They're transferring his body—"
"I don't care." My voice was sharp, almost foreign to me. "I demand to see my husband."
Franco looked at me, pain carved into the lines of his face, and finally nodded.
He turned.
And I followed.
Jimmie beside me, quiet.
Each step down the hallway felt heavier than the last.
Because deep down, I knew…
If Devon was truly gone, I wasn't just walking toward his body.
I was walking toward the part of myself that died with him, and I have a lot at stake.
—
Jimmie's POV
I couldn't sit still.
I tried. God knows I did. I sat on the edge of my bed, then on the couch, then I stood in the hallway of my flat just staring at the door, my keys already in hand. Restless didn't even begin to cover it.
Devon's face kept flashing in my mind. Not just from the video—the awful video they kept replaying of his fall—but older memories. Smiles. Scowls. The way he'd look at me like he knew something I didn't. Something he was always trying to say without saying it.
Clementine offered to come with me. I told her I'd be fine. Lied to her face.
I wasn't fine.
Not even close.
The drive to the hospital was slow. Or maybe it just felt that way. Every red light felt like a curse. The voice of the radio presenter droned on, stringing political poison like pearls.
"… speculation grows over the President's collapse during today's national address. While sources close to the administration insist it was health-related, others believe this may tie into the ongoing allegations of—"
"Can you turn it off, please?" I asked, barely hiding the irritation in my tone.
The driver obliged. "Tragic what's happening. You never expect someone like that to—"
I tuned him out.
I didn't want to hear how sad it was. How shocking it must be. They didn't know him. Not like I did. Not like I should have.
Devon… he tried to tell me once.
Not with words. But with the way he pulled away after the kidnapping. The quietness. The absence. I rejected him—didn't know I was doing it at the time, but I did. And now? Now he's lying somewhere inside a cold building, suspended between worlds, and I might never get to say the things I didn't even know I needed to say.
What kind of sick fate is this?
I clenched my eyes shut, fists pressing into my lap.
"We're here," the driver said.
My body moved, but my mind stayed tangled in memories. I didn't even know where I was going until one of the guards recognised me and led me down a bright hallway.
And then… There she was.
Eleanor.
Her back was straight, her body rigid, but her eyes… her eyes were hollow. Empty. Grief had hollowed her out.
"Ma'am," I said.
It was the only word I could find. One word laced with guilt, fear, disbelief.
She turned—and then everything unravelled. She embraced me, and I froze, because I didn't feel like I deserved it. But when her body trembled against mine, I held her like I had no right to let go.
And now… now we were walking.
Down that hallway. The one that ended in answers I didn't want.
Franco walked ahead, silent, his steps clipped. But when he glanced at me, it was like his eyes sliced right through me. Anger. Judgment. Maybe even hatred.
I didn't blame him.
Your Excellency," the doctor said softly when we reached the critical unit. She was young. Maybe late thirties. Her coat pristine, her face flushed, probably from the weight of what she had to deliver. "We've done everything we can. I want you to know that. There was no delay. But… he's not responding."
Eleanor's body shook with a muffled sob. "I want to see him."
The doctor nodded. "Of course. But I must say—we're trying to manage the situation. We want the family to have time before this becomes… public."
Eleanor didn't reply. She was already staring through the glass pane.
Her eyes locked onto Devon's body on the bed, still, pale, the machines around him humming a soft, hollow rhythm.
She walked in.
I stayed behind, staring through the glass. Watching her as she stood at his side, saying nothing. Just watching him. He touched his hand like it were made of porcelain. I could see her lips move, but I couldn't hear the words.
I couldn't move. My legs rooted to the floor. I don't even know if I was breathing.
Then Franco spoke beside me. "He was a good man."
I stiffened.
Franco didn't look away. His voice was steady but sharp.
"He never wanted any of this," he added.
I swallowed hard.
I had no words.
I had so many words.
But none that would make sense of this.
And then I heard my voice, low and rough: "And now we lost him."
Franco's silence felt like resentment.
"I lost him," I whispered.
The next moment was a blur—Eleanor rushing out of the unit, hand clamped over her mouth, trying not to collapse. Franco caught her. Guided her away.
Now it was just me and Devon.
I stepped into the room slowly, like a trespasser.
His body was still. Too still.
Devon was always so full of life. Even at his coldest, there was fire beneath his skin. But now… now his lips were pale, his features unnaturally still. Yet somehow… still striking. His jaw set, his dark hair combed back, his hand resting over the sheets like he might wake up at any second.
"God…" I whispered. "You were beautiful."
I sat beside him.
My fingers hovered over his hand.
"I didn't know," I said softly. "I was scared. I didn't want it to be real… because if it was, then everything had to change. I had to change."
I exhaled. "And I couldn't. I didn't."
I let silence sit with us for a moment.
"Maybe if I had—maybe you wouldn't be here. Maybe you'd have held on longer. Maybe you'd have fought harder if you weren't… alone."
Tears slipped down my cheeks before I could stop them.
I reached out and touched his hand, just barely.
A graze. A ghost of a touch.
And I gasped.
There it was again.
That spark.
The same one I felt when he offered to shake my hand that morning in the presidential suite. Like electricity. Like recognition. Like home.
I snatched my hand back, heart pounding.
Was that supposed to happen?
I looked at him, chest heaving.
He didn't move.
But I had to know.
I reached out again, this time fully. Laced my fingers with his.
And warmth surged.
Real warmth.
Not imagined. Not faint.
Something passed between us—like an invisible thread pulling tight.
The machines started to beep.
Slow at first.
Then faster. Louder.
I blinked, staring at the monitor. Then at Devon.
His hand tightened in mine.
And then his eyes opened.
Not just opened—glowed.
Golden.
Brilliant.
Piercing.
"M-mine," he rasped, voice cracked and dry.
I froze.
Staring at him in sheer disbelief.
Then came a loud crash—a nurse dropping a tray outside the room, hands covering her mouth in shock at what she saw.
Chaos began behind us.
But all I could hear was the echo of that one word in my head.
Mine.
Oh no, I thought, my heart pounding.
This is bad.
But deep down, I knew...
This is only the beginning.