Darkness did not come all at once.
It crept in slowly, settling behind Elara's eyes like a permanent shadow. She woke to it again and again, each time expecting light, each time meeting nothing. At first, she thought her eyes were still closed. She blinked hard, forcing them open.
Nothing changed.
The air smelled sharp and sterile. Machines hummed softly around her, their steady rhythm the only proof that time was still moving. Her throat burned. Her body felt heavy, unresponsive.
"Elara?"
A woman's voice. Close.
Elara turned her head toward the sound. "Why is it dark?"
The pause was too long.
Her heart began to pound.
"You're in the hospital," the nurse said carefully. "You've been asleep for a while."
"Why is it dark?" Elara asked again, louder this time.
The nurse exhaled. "The fire badly damaged your eyes. The doctors are doing everything they can."
Fire.
Memory rushed back in broken pieces. Heat. Smoke. The sound of something collapsing. Victor is shouting her name. Pain so sharp it stole her breath.
"My baby," Elara whispered. Her hand moved instinctively to her stomach.
The silence answered before the nurse spoke.
"I'm sorry," the woman said softly.
Something inside Elara cracked.
She didn't scream. She didn't cry. Her body went unnervingly still, as if even grief had abandoned her.
Victor arrived later that day.
She sensed him before he spoke. His presence pressed into the room, heavy and familiar. He took her hand immediately, gripping it tightly, as though afraid she might disappear.
"Elara," he said. His voice was rough. "I'm here."
She pulled her hand away.
"You cheated on me," she said flatly.
Victor inhaled sharply. "It meant nothing."
"It meant everything," she replied.
He knelt beside her bed, his voice low and pleading. "I was stupid. I was careless. But I love you. I swear to you, Elara, I love you."
She turned her face away, staring into darkness that no longer felt empty but alive and crowded with memories and betrayal.
"I want a divorce," she said.
The room went cold.
Victor stood slowly. "That's not happening."
"I won't stay married to a man who humiliated me," she said. "I won't."
"You're not thinking clearly."
"I am thinking clearly for the first time."
Victor didn't raise his voice. That frightened her more than if he had.
"We'll talk about this later," he said calmly. "You need rest."
That night, Justice Henry Moore came.
Her father's footsteps were unmistakable. Confident. Unhurried.
"Elara," he said.
She turned toward him, relief flickering briefly before dying. "Daddy, I want to leave him."
Silence stretched.
"If I leave?" she asked, her voice shaking. "If I walk away from Victor."
There was no hesitation.
"You will cease to be my daughter," Henry Moore said.
The words landed quietly. Final.
Elara stopped breathing for a moment.
"I gave you a future," he continued. "Our family's future. Do not destroy it because of feelings."
Her hand lifted, trembling, reaching for him. "Daddy."
But he was already turning away.
His footsteps were steady as he left the ward.
The door closed.
The silence that followed was heavier than any shouting.
Elara lay still, her hand suspended in the air where her father had been moments before. Slowly, she lowered it to the mattress, fingers curling into the sheet until the fabric wrinkled beneath her grip.
Her chest ached. Not sharply. Deeply. As though something essential had been torn loose and left bleeding inside her.
She had lost her baby.
She had lost her sight.
And now she had lost her father.
Or perhaps, she realized dimly, she had never truly had him.
A broken sound escaped her throat. She turned her face into the pillow, pressing against it as tears soaked the fabric. She didn't wipe them away. There was no one left to see them.
The machines beside her kept their steady rhythm.
Outside, New York continued to live.
Inside the ward, Elara Moore understood the truth.
Her father had traded her for his ambitions.
She had been placed.
And she was utterly alone.
Night returned quietly.
Elara sensed it not by sight but by sound. The hospital changed after dark. Fewer footsteps. Lower voices. The machines seemed louder, their steady rhythms filling the spaces where conversation had been.
A knock came softly.
"Mrs. Hale?"
"Yes?"
"I'm Dr. Cole," the man said. "One of the residents on call tonight."
His voice was calm. Present.
"How are you feeling?" he asked.
"Like everything I have has been taken from me."
"That makes sense," he said quietly.
No one had said that yet.
He explained everything he did as he checked her vitals. His hand brushed her wrist briefly. Warm. Careful.
"You don't have to talk," he added. "But if you want to, I'll listen."
She nodded.
When he left, the room felt emptier than before.
Victor returned later, irritated that she had not taken her medication.
"I'm increasing security," he said casually. "For your safety."
"I don't want bodyguards."
"You don't get to decide."
By morning, she heard them. Heavy footsteps. Low voices. Always nearby.
She wasn't being protected.
She was being watched.
Days blurred together.
Victor came and went. So did the gifts. Elara now learned to identify them by sound. The rustle of wrapping paper. The clink of jewelry. The quiet sigh of a nurse setting something expensive on the table.
She never asked what they were.
Justice Henry Moore did not return.
Dr. Cole did.
Not always assigned to her. Sometimes Dr. Cole passed by her room. Sometimes he checked her chart. Sometimes hecaught her in the hallway and spoke to her briefly as orderlies wheeled her toward tests and scans.
Their conversations were small. Ordinary.
"How's your appetite today?"
"Have you been sleeping?"
"Do you need anything?"
And sometimes, when the ward was quiet, they talked about nothing at all. Music. Books. The sound of the city from the window.
She found herself listening for his footsteps.
One afternoon, as he adjusted her IV, his hand brushed hers again. This time, he didn't pull away immediately.
She felt it.
The awareness was sudden. Unwelcome. Confusing.
She turned her head sharply. "I'm married."
He froze.
"I know," he said gently.
Embarrassment burned through her. "I shouldn't—"
"You didn't do anything," he interrupted. "And neither did I."
Silence settled between them, thick but not uncomfortable.
When he left, her heart raced in a way it hadn't since before the fire.
Victor noticed.
He always did.
"You've been talking to one of the doctors," he said one evening.
Elara stiffened. "He's assigned to me."
Victor's voice was light, but something sharp hid beneath it. "Dr. Cole."
She said nothing.
"I don't like it," Victor continued. "You're vulnerable. People take advantage."
"Is that what you're afraid of?" she asked quietly. "Or are you afraid I'll finally see you clearly?"
The air changed.
Victor leaned closer, his voice low. "Be careful, Elara."
The smell of Cognac and Cigar from his breath tickled her nose.
Her breath hitched.
Later that night, as she lay awake, she heard Victor on the phone again.
"Yes," he said. "Keep reporting. Every movement. Every conversation."
A pause.
"And the doctor," he added. "I want him watched too."
Elara's fingers curled into the sheets.