Chapter 1043
In the sunlit dining room, sitting at the head of the table, was her father. Richard Sterling.
He was reading the morning paper, a cup of black coffee steaming next to his hand. He looked up, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
“There’s the birthday girl,” he said, his voice deep and comforting.
Skye stopped at the bottom of the stairs. The smell of the coffee, the warmth of the sun, the sound of his voice—it was overwhelmingly real. The memories of the vault, of Bastian, of the blood and the fire, began to blur at the edges, feeling like a distant, feverish nightmare.
At that exact moment, in the real world, the harsh fluorescent lights of the Sea City General Hospital ICU buzzed relentlessly overhead.
𝖳𝗿𝖾n𝘥𝗂n𝗀 ոо𝘃𝗲𝗹𝘴 oո 𝘨𝗮𝗅ո𝗈𝘃𝖾ls.c𝘰m
A doctor in blue scrubs stepped out through the double doors, pulling down his surgical mask. His expression was grim.
Liam was sitting on the cold linoleum floor in the hallway, his hands coated in dried blood—Bastian’s blood, Skye’s blood. He stared at the tiles, his chest barely moving.
“Mr. Kensington,” the doctor said softly.
Liam scrambled to his feet, his knees cracking. Alistair stood up from a plastic waiting chair, his jaw clenched so tight a muscle ticked violently in his cheek.
“She inhaled a massive dose of an unknown neurotoxin,” the doctor explained, keeping his voice clinical to mask the helplessness beneath it. “It has crossed the blood-brain barrier. Her vitals are stable, but her brain activity is trapped in a hyper-active REM state.”
“What does that mean?” Liam demanded, grabbing the doctor’s arm.
“It means she’s in a deep coma,” the doctor said gently, pulling free. “She is locked inside her own mind. Unless her brain can process and flush the toxin on its own, she may never wake up.”
Liam’s legs gave out. He slid down the wall and buried his face in his bloody hands. A broken, guttural sob tore from his throat.
Down the hall, Julian sat in a borrowed hospital wheelchair, his face as pale as paper, his breathing shallow. He stared through the glass window of the ICU doors at the machines keeping Skye alive.
Don’t do it, Skye, Julian prayed silently, his hands gripping the armrests until his knuckles turned white. Don’t fall for the beautiful lie. It’s a trap. If you stay in the dream, you die.
The dining room of Sterling Manor smelled of butter, maple syrup, and fresh lilies.
Skye sat at the long mahogany table, staring at the plate of bacon and eggs in front of her. The silver fork felt heavy in her hand. She didn’t move to eat.
Her father had already left for the office, kissing her forehead and promising a grand celebration that evening. It was too perfect—the sunlight hitting the crystal chandelier, the gentle hum of the lawnmowers outside. It lacked the sharp, jagged edges of reality.
The heavy front doors opened with a loud creak.
Footsteps echoed in the foyer. Energetic. Heavy.
Ethan walked into the dining room.
Skye dropped her fork. It clattered loudly against the fine china.