Sophie’s POV
I surface slowly, like swimming up through dark water.
My eyelids are impossibly heavy, weighted down by exhaustion I don't remember earning. Everything feels distant—the scratch of sheets against my skin, the dull ache in my lower back, the antiseptic smell that burns my nostrils with each shallow breath.
For a long moment, I exist in the space between sleep and waking, unable to tell which direction is up.
Then the world comes into focus, and Adrian is there.
He's slouched in the chair beside my bed, still wearing the same clothes I last saw him in—dark shirt wrinkled, sleeves rolled to his elbows, stubble shadowing his jaw in a way I've never seen before.
He looks like he hasn't slept in days, like he's been sitting in that exact position, watching me, waiting for something he wasn't sure would come.
When our eyes meet, his entire body goes still. He watches me like I might disappear if he blinks.
For a long moment, neither of us speaks. The weight of everything unsaid hangs between us—the rooftop, Lisette's screams, the sensation of my legs giving out beneath me.
I remember fragments: blue and red lights, Adrian's arms catching me, voices shouting things I couldn't understand. Then nothing, a void where time should be.
Adrian leans forward. His hand finds mine on the bed, fingers intertwining with a gentleness that doesn't match the tension in his shoulders. When he speaks, his voice is rougher than I've ever heard it.
"Two days." The words fall like stones into still water. "You've been unconscious for two days."
Two days. I try to process that—forty-eight hours of my life simply gone, erased, while the world continued spinning without me. My throat feels like sandpaper, but I force the words out anyway.
"My family…"
"They were here."
Adrian's thumb traces circles against my palm, a gesture so uncharacteristically tender that it frightens me more than his usual control.
"Your father, Emma. They came as soon as they heard. They were terrified, Sophie. They stayed until visiting hours ended, and even then, your father had to be practically dragged out. They'll be back first thing in the morning."
I can picture Emma's face—the worry she tries to hide, the way her hands shake when she's afraid. My father, steady and solid, trying to hold everything together the way I always have.
The thought of them sitting in this sterile room, watching me breathe, not knowing if I'd wake up… But there's a more urgent question clawing at my chest. One that matters more than anything else.
"The baby." My hand moves instinctively to my stomach, feeling for the slight swell that's become my constant companion. "Adrian, is the baby okay?"
He nods, and something in his expression cracks open—relief, fear, a vulnerability I'm not used to seeing on his face.
"The baby is fine. The doctors said your blood pressure spiked from the stress and your body essentially shut down to protect itself. They've been monitoring you both around the clock." He pauses, and I catch the slight hesitation before he adds. "For now."
I push myself up against the pillows, wincing at the stiffness in my muscles. "What about Lisette? What happened after I…"
The memory surfaces like a bruise being pressed: Lisette's wild eyes, her accusations, Cleo's phone recording everything.
"Adrian, tell me what's happening. All of it."
His jaw tightens. I recognize that look—the protective instinct rising, the desire to shield me from anything that might cause more harm.
"You need to rest. The doctors said…"
"I need the truth." My voice comes out stronger than I thought. "I'm done with surprises. I'm done with finding out things secondhand, too late or not at all. Whatever's happening out there, I need to know."
For a moment, I think he'll refuse. Adrian has spent our entire relationship controlling information, revealing only what he decides I can handle.
But something shifts in his expression—resignation, maybe, or respect for the steel in my voice that even two days of unconsciousness couldn't soften.
"Lisette has been declared mentally unfit to stand trial," he says finally. "Given her behavior on the rooftop and her documented history of psychological instability, she'll be committed to a psychiatric institution rather than prosecuted. The evaluation process is ongoing, but her lawyers are already preparing the paperwork."
I absorb this. Lisette, locked away somewhere white and clinical, treated for an illness that twisted her love into something monstrous. Part of me wants to feel satisfaction. Part of me just feels tired.
"And Cassian?"
Adrian's expression hardens at the name.
"He's being charged as an accomplice. His involvement with Lisette's schemes—feeding her information, helping her orchestrate opportunities to get close to you—it all came out during the investigation. The police have been building a case since that night. Prison is a real possibility."
Cassian. In prison. The words don't fit together in my mind. I think of his hands gentle on my face, his voice promising he'd never hurt me.
I think of the betrayal carved into every memory we shared—how much of it was real, how much was performance?
"I want to speak with him."
Adrian goes very still. "Excuse me?"
"Before the trial. I want to hear his side, I need to understand why he…"
"Why he helped a deranged woman terrorize you?" Adrian's voice drops to that dangerous register I know too well. "Why he fed her information about your whereabouts, your vulnerabilities, your relationship with me? There's nothing he can say that justifies what he did, Sophie."
"Maybe not." I hold his gaze, refusing to flinch. "But I still need to hear it. You can't stop me."
The silence between us crackles with tension. Adrian's jaw works, and I can see the argument building behind his eyes—all the reasons this is a terrible idea, all the ways he wants to forbid it.
But he doesn't. Instead, something in his expression softens, shifting into an emotion I can't quite name. Amusement, maybe, or admiration.
"Amazing," he murmurs, and his hand rises to stroke my hair back from my face. "Fresh out of a coma and already picking fights with me."
Despite everything, I feel my lips twitch. "Someone has to keep you humble."
The tender moment shatters when the door opens.
Two police officers enter the room—a man and a woman, both carrying the tired efficiency of people who've seen too many hospital interviews. Adrian is on his feet immediately, positioning himself between me and the door.
"She just regained consciousness," he says, his voice carrying that cold authority I've heard him use on students, on colleagues, on anyone who stands in his way. "She needs rest, not interrogation. You can come back tomorrow."
The female officer's expression doesn't change. "Mr. Lewis, we've waited two days. The investigation requires Miss Hale's statement."
I reach for Adrian's hand before he can argue further. "It's okay." When he turns to look at me, I squeeze his fingers gently. "I'm ready. Let them do their job."
He doesn't like it, I can see that in every line of his body, but he steps aside.
The questioning is thorough, clinical. They walk me through every moment of that night, from the rooftop confrontation to the moment I lost consciousness. I answer as clearly as I can, my voice growing steadier with each response.
Then the female officer closes her notebook and meets my eyes.
"One final question, Miss Hale. Given your account of events, do you wish to press charges against Dr. Lisette Vaughn and Dr. Cassian Harrison?"
The question lands like a blow to my chest. I think of Lisette's shattered mind, of the institution waiting to swallow her. I think of Cassian's face when he promised to protect me.
I open my mouth to answer.