Chapter Twenty-Six: The Terms of Surrender
The hospital room smelled of antiseptic and quiet dread. The steady, artificial beep of the cardiac monitor was the only sound, a metronome ticking off the fragile seconds of her father's unconscious life. He looked small in the stark white bed, wires snaking from his body like vines claiming a felled tree. The vibrant, commanding man who had announced her engagement was gone, replaced by this pale, diminished stranger.
Her mother sat in a rigid chair by the window, her face turned away, a profile carved from marble and grief. She had not spoken to Amaya since screaming those words in the ruined garden. The accusation hung in the sterile air, heavier than any wedding veil.
Amaya stood just inside the door, still wearing the stained, borrowed sweatpants and hoodie a nurse had given her after they'd peeled the wedding gown away. She felt hollowed out, a vessel containing only shock, a bottomless well of guilt, and the cold, dead ash of her confession to Aris.
Hours passed. Doctors came and went with murmured updates. Stable. Critical but stable. The next twenty-four hours are crucial. Each word was a verdict.
As a grey dawn leaked into the room, her mother finally moved. She didn't look at Amaya. She stared at her husband's still face.
"They say he will live," she said, her voice scraped raw. It held no relief. Only a vast, exhausted bitterness. "The damage… they won't know the extent for some time."
Amaya's throat was too tight for speech. She simply waited, braced for the next blow.
Her mother turned then. The fury had burned down to a terrible, icy clarity. "You have destroyed us. The scandal is everywhere. Our name is a joke. Richard's family is mortified. And for what? For a fantasy? For a boy who made it abundantly clear he wants nothing to do with you?"
Each word was a lash, perfectly aimed. Amaya flinched but did not look away. She deserved this. She had caused this.
"I am so sorry," Amaya whispered, the words utterly inadequate.
"Sorry does not put humpty dumpty back together again," her mother said, the old childhood phrase rendered grotesque. "Sorry does not restore our standing. It does not un-break your father's heart." She took a shuddering breath. "You have a choice now, Amaya. The only choice you have left. You can finish what you started. You can be the selfish child who burns her entire family to the ground for a feeling. Or you can be the daughter we raised. You can fix this."
"How?" The question was a plea.
"You will go to Richard and his parents. You will apologize. You will explain that you had a… a moment of childish panic. That the pressure overwhelmed you. That you are deeply committed to the future we have all planned."
Amaya felt the walls of the new, smaller cage close around her. They were not gilded now. They were iron, forged in the fire of her own failure. This wasn't about happiness anymore. It was about penance. It was about keeping her father alive.
"I can't…" she began, the instinct to fight, to flee, sparking one last time.
"You can, and you will." Her mother's voice brooked no argument. "Or you can walk out that door. But if you do, you walk out of this family. You will have no home. No support. You will be alone with the consequence of your choice. And you will live every day knowing you might have killed your father for a boy who doesn't even like you."
It was the masterstroke. The guilt was a weapon, and her mother wielded it with precision. The image of her father, collapsing under the weight of her rebellion, was the only thing more powerful than her fear of the future with Richard.
The fight died. The last ember of the girl who ran for love was smothered under the cold, heavy blanket of duty and debt.
"Alright," Amaya said, her voice flat, empty. "I'll do it."
But as the words left her mouth, a final, feeble instinct for self-preservation stirred. A compromise with the executioner.
"But on my terms," she added, the statement shocking both of them.
Her mother's eyes narrowed. "You are in no position to set terms."
"I am the one who has to live it," Amaya said, a spark of her old defiance flickering. "So here are my terms. I will apologize. I will reaffirm the engagement. But the wedding will not happen now. It will not happen until I have finished my degree. I will go to university. I will study psychology. I will stand on my own two feet, first. I will become something… for you, for the family. A professional. Someone you can be proud of, not just a bride to be traded. We will be engaged. But we will marry only after I am a psychologist."
She held her breath, waiting for the refusal, for the storm.
Her mother studied her for a long, silent moment. The calculation in her eyes was visible. A long engagement could allow the scandal to fade. A daughter with a respectable degree was, in some ways, a better asset than a teenage bride. It was a salvage operation, and Amaya was offering a revised, more durable blueprint.
Slowly, her mother nodded. "You will have to convince them. Richard will have to agree."
"I will convince them," Amaya said, with a certainty she did not feel.
The meeting was held in her father's hospital room two days later, once he was conscious, though devastatingly weak. Richard and his parents were the picture of strained civility. Amaya, dressed in simple, respectful clothes, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, delivered her rehearsed lines. She spoke of panic, of youth, of overwhelming fear. She did not speak of love, or its absence. She spoke of duty, of family, of a shared future. She was humble, contrite, and utterly convincing.
Then, she laid out her new proposal. The extended engagement. Her education as a priority. A future union of two stable, professional families.
Richard watched her, his gaze analytical. He saw the brokenness in her, the spirit that had been extinguished. He saw, too, the practical sense of her plan. A wife with a degree was not a liability. It was an upgrade.
He looked at his parents, then at Amaya's mother, who gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod.
"A long engagement shows maturity," Richard said finally, his voice calm, reasonable. "A focus on education is commendable. It… realigns the narrative." He offered Amaya a small, gracious smile. It felt like the closing of a cell door. "We accept your proposal, Amaya. We will move forward. Together."
Her father, from his bed, reached a trembling hand toward her. She took it. His grip was frighteningly weak. "My good girl," he rasped, tears in his eyes. "My sensible girl."
As the families murmured in relieved agreement, making plans for a quiet, future announcement, Amaya stood perfectly still. She had stopped the bleeding. She had saved the family, perhaps saved her father. She had gotten a stay of execution, a few years in a cell of her own design.
She looked out the hospital window. Somewhere beyond the parking lot, the city went on. Somewhere, Aris Rowon was in a hospital of his own, saving lives, building his impeccable future, a future that had no room for scandal or delusion or her.
She had run for love and found ruin. Now, she would walk, slowly and deliberately, into a different kind of ruin—a respectable, comfortable, loveless one. The deal was struck. The rebellion was over. All that was left was the long, quiet business of building a life from the rubble.