Chapter Thirty-Three: The Performance in the Garden
The hospital garden was a sad imitation of life.
Its beauty was curated, trimmed into obedience. Flowers bloomed on command in regimented beds, their colors too vivid, too deliberate. The paths were smooth, forgiving of no missteps, the benches placed at strategic intervals for rest and observation. Even the air felt managed—damp earth laced with antiseptic and the faint growl of distant traffic, reminding me that the real world existed somewhere beyond the high walls and security gates.
Julian pushed my wheelchair with a gentle, proprietary hand resting on my shoulder, as if to reassure both of us that I was still there. That I hadn't slipped through the cracks again.
"The sunshine will do you good," he said, voice warm, carefully optimistic. The tone of a man following medical advice and personal conviction in equal measure.
I said nothing.
A sparrow hopped across the path in front of us, stopping to peck at something invisible. It fluttered away moments later, unbothered, uncontained. The sight struck me like a quiet cruelty. Even the smallest creature here had more agency than I did.
Julian stopped the chair beneath a bower of early-blooming wisteria, its pale blossoms hanging in gentle cascades. It was picturesque. Intimate. The kind of place where announcements were made, where vows might someday be exchanged for the benefit of an approving audience.
He crouched in front of me, bringing his face level with mine. His expression was soft, earnest, searching.
"Aira," he said quietly, "we need to talk about what you said. About not deserving this. About not deserving me."
I forced myself to meet his gaze. My reflection stared back at me from his pupils: pale, thinner, wrapped in braces and borrowed clothes. The truth burned in my chest, corrosive and unavoidable.
"It's not just words," I said. My voice sounded brittle, like glass under pressure. "I'm… broken. You've seen it. Not just physically. Inside." I swallowed, fingers tightening in my lap. "My heart isn't mine anymore. It's… shattered. You deserve someone whole. Someone unafraid. Someone pure. Not a… used, broken piece."
The words hurt as they left me, but they were the only honesty I had left to give.
I expected denial. Reassurance. The practiced lies of love.
Instead, his face softened into something that looked dangerously like understanding.
He reached for my hand, enclosing it in both of his. His grip was warm, steady, unyielding.
"Don't you see?" he said, his voice dropping, intensifying. "That's precisely why I want to marry you."
My breath caught.
"Your brokenness isn't a flaw to me, Aira," he continued. "It's a call. A purpose." His thumb brushed over my knuckles, reverent. "I can fix this. I can build something beautiful from what's been shattered. I can give you a safe, quiet, respected life—one where you never have to hurt like this again."
He leaned closer, eyes shining with conviction.
"Let me be your shelter."
The words wrapped around me like velvet—and beneath them, I felt the steel.
He wasn't rejecting my brokenness. He was claiming it. Cataloging it. Turning it into his project, his redemption, his proof of goodness. I wasn't a woman he loved; I was a wounded thing he could restore, display, and protect from the world by sealing it away.
The horror stole my breath.
Later, as the sun dipped lower and the garden grew quieter, I insisted on standing.
It was a feeble act of rebellion—a protest against the wheelchair, against the soft tyranny of care. I wanted, desperately, to feel my feet on the ground without permission.
Julian hesitated. "Aira, you don't need to—"
"I want to," I said, sharper than I intended.
He helped me up.
The moment my weight shifted onto my legs, they trembled violently. Weak, unreliable. My knees buckled, the pain flaring bright and sudden.
"I've got you," Julian murmured.
His arms closed around me instantly, practiced, secure.
And something in me recoiled.
A full-body shiver rippled through my skin, instinctive and uncontrollable. This was the second man to hold me like this. The memory of Rowan's arms—solid, familiar, devastating—flashed through me with cruel clarity. Rowan's touch had been a lie, but it had felt chosen. Desired.
Julian's felt claimed.
"I can… I can manage," I protested weakly, my hands pressing against his chest, seeking distance.
"Don't be foolish," he said gently, but his grip tightened. Not cruelly. Inevitably. "You'll hurt yourself."
Before I could respond, he shifted his hold.
One arm slid behind my knees. The other braced my back.
He lifted me.
A bridal carry.
The world tilted violently. Blood rushed in my ears. A wave of dizziness—of violation—washed over me. This wasn't care. This was possession rehearsed.
"Julian," I whispered, panic threading my voice. "Put me down. Please."
He didn't.
He only drew me closer and began walking back along the path, his pace unhurried, deliberate.
"Shhh," he said softly. "Just rest. I have you."
My strength was gone. Pain and exhaustion crushed any resistance I had left. My body went limp in his arms, surrendering not out of trust, but because it had no other choice.
A terrible resignation settled over me.
Why am I even fighting? a numb voice asked.
He is going to be my husband.
This is what it will be.
His decisions.
His care.
His possession.
My silence.
I let my head fall against his shoulder, eyes closing against the too-bright sky. I was a patient. A doll. A future wife being carried toward a life already decided.
My will fluttered weakly, a ghost trapped behind my ribs.
As he carried me past a large weeping willow, its branches trailing like mourning veils, neither of us noticed the subtle movement behind them.
A lens adjusted.
A shutter clicked—once. Twice.
The moment was captured: my limp resignation, his determined hold, the illusion of tenderness masking ownership. Frozen. Filed. Another piece of evidence in a life that no longer belonged to me.
Back in my sterile room, as Julian settled me into bed with the quiet satisfaction of a task completed, that image was already traveling—compressed, encrypted, delivered.
To an editor?
To Lucas?
To a private archive?
I didn't know.
All I knew was this: even in my most vulnerable, defeated moment, I had not been alone.
I had been watched.
Recorded.
And stored away.
My life was no longer just a cage.
It was a performance.
And I was the subject—carefully observed, meticulously documented—my brokenness no longer private, but curated for an unseen audience waiting beyond the walls.