Page 14 of Prince of Wrath

“Talk to me,” she signs, pausing. “About something that isn’t…about something that makes you happy.” Ella escapes through books. But she didn't have them with her there, or here. I could call Matt and ask him to bring her some, but I’m not sure she would be awake to read them. Besides, we should be home tomorrow, where I’ll make sure she has all the books she could possibly want. I have spent enough time watching my skyscrapers to know how many floors are in the dozens of buildings outside my office windows, instead of thinking about anything but work for the last decade, so I guess escaping isn't that foreign to me.

“What makes me happy,” I repeat, thinking.

You. You smiling, you laughing, you frowning at my chess set, and when you drink your tea even though it is way too hot. You signing and being mad at me while being the perfect mix of stubborn and adorable, you being such a hard worker, and listening to your podcast while cleaning because multitasking is second nature to you. You, collecting all sorts of knickknacks that don’t necessarily make sense but give you that sort of comfort I can relate to. You, and the way you talk about life like it is a box of chocolates you are eager to discover, and our common hatred of bikes. You breathing, existing, sharing oxygen with me, and not being afraid to put me in my place. And if not you, then the possibility of it, of the hours slipping away until the moment we see each other, to the dumb teenage climb up the side of your house I did just to see you, to the split second I observe you existing before you see me, and the smile on your face when you finally do. That’s what makes me happy. Although again, I don’t say that, because I don’t know how to say it without you running away.

“Actors driving in movies.” I almost smile at the memory of catching them with Nate in every western we saw, pointing at the screen, saying, Look, he’s not even looking forward. “Because, you know, they never watch the road.” I rinse her hair, grateful that she is letting me do this, even if it seems difficult for her to bear being touched. I will need to look into this later, see if there are medical books or papers on the matter. The doctor did mention the word PTSD, so I’ll definitely connect her with the best therapist I can find. I guess the hardest part was knowing that they found an impressive amount of sleeping pills in her blood. And I pray with everything I can that Cole only meant to drug her to keep her calm and not to abuse her physically. As of right now, nothing says he did, but if Ella ever opens up later and talks about it, I will absolutely lose my mind.

Her face tilts delicately, her cheek resting on her right knee, looking at me like she does not want me to notice. I keep my eyes on her dark hair, proving my point that I can behave like a true gentleman.

“Done,” I let out, even though I wish for nothing more than to keep touching her, even if it is just like this. I will take any crumb she is willing to give me at this point. Once I’m done, I reluctantly stand and exit the bathroom, keeping the door open in case she needs me, my back against the wall beside the door. Water dances around as she comes out; my feet pressuring me to go and help her, but she did not ask, and so I cannot. Hands curl into fists at my sides. Teeth grind. Heart pounding, slow and fast. I wait, and wait, until she comes out, and I get by her side with a fresh, clean T-shirt of mine and a pair of my sweatpants I brought this morning.

“I… I’ll turn.” I shift my back on her while being almost so close I could touch her, and I hear the towel meeting the bed and the rustling of my clothes as she puts them on. A vein on my forehead is pulsing like I’m getting chased by a cheetah, and I get the urge to stick my fist into a wall. Focus. Control. Two little snaps of her fingers break my train of thought, and I turn slowly, hand over my eyes. I would walk through a marathon length of shard glass barefoot if I could be granted the gift of seeing her skin, so trust me, the comedic irony isn’t lost on me.

“Can I look?” Being a grown thirty-two-year-old man facing the woman of my dreams and hiding behind my palm is perhaps the comedic relief we both needed.

She snaps her fingers twice. Okay. Twice for yes. Got it. Now lying on the bed, I tuck the sheet above her, careful not to touch her. The ruffle of fabric mixing with our breathing and the ticking tension in the air is enough to make fire. This kind of connection, palpable, should be studied. My hand rises in reflex, searching to cup her face, but I stop midair, curling it into a fist. She shapes a weak “thank you,” looking into my eyes, her words wrapping me in her warmth and softness.

“Always, Ella. Anytime you need me.” I feel like she’s about to cry, and so I kneel, frowning and desperate and wishing I could just, just touch her. “I’ll fix everything, sweet…” I stop. “Ella, I promise you, I will fix everything.” She nods multiple times against the pillow, but it is weak and sad–the evidence of my failure rolling on her cheeks. Hell, I should have tied her to my bedframe, and she would not have been able to go out and try to reach her father. But the what-ifs will not help us now. If I could do everything differently, if I could just… Fingers move around, her eyelids heavy, a tiny sigh escaping her beautiful, begging-to-be-kissed lips.

“Sweetheart, Tristan, please. Call me sweetheart, always,” she signs before closing her eyes, palms tucked under the side of her face, as she falls asleep like taking a bath has drained her completely. I return to the bathroom to fetch a small towel and slide it under her long hair above the pillow. Not in the best way, but since I cannot touch her, I do not try to make it perfect. Then I press the button calling the nurse so she can come back and connect the hydration liquid to the catheter in her arm. Standing above her while I wait for the nurse to come, I mentally photograph all her features, the right curve of her nose and the depth of her lashes, the sound of her breathing, alive, right before me, and I imprint it in me, taking this moment for the milestone it is—a never-going-back kind of moment. From now on, things will be different. I will be different, because the woman I love needs things from me I have never given anyone before. All I can think about now is rebuilding everything so I can become the man she deserves and give her the care and safety she needs.

“Sweetheart,” I murmur. We still have wars and battles ahead of us, between her stepmother, her dad, and my empire falling, but I will be there. Every step of the way.

I’ll fix everything, Ella.

I promise.

Chapter Six

Tristan

So it is pretty much everywhere by now. Ella has fallen asleep, and it is around eleven a.m. when I go out to a family waiting room to make a few calls without disrupting her rest. Matt is guarding her door, which means that anyone trying to get inside without authorization will most likely end up in a pile of sliced meat. I don't even have to change channels, since it is being broadcast live right now on national news.

Tristan Ashford, heir of the Ashford Empire, loses forty-five points of stock value.

I guess it must be true if the red banner says it at the bottom of the screen, accompanied by footage of me shaking hands with the president last year. The room is empty, thank God, because I do not have it in me to try to focus with people around. Fake plants, wooden Scandinavian chairs, the whole thing bright and filled with tropical photos, as if it would erase the fact that we are here. At least I brought her to the best private hospital in the city. Most are too big, underfunded, and too easy for Cole and his rats to access. She is much better here, with the top doctors and specialists, modern comfort, and healthy food.

“Sources close to Ashford Holdings confirm that several major assets were sold in the last four days, including private maritime property, commercial real estate, and a significant block of shares linked to the Ashford family’s European development portfolio. The sudden liquidation has sent shockwaves through the market, with analysts questioning whether the move signals deeper instability inside the Ashford Empire. In a few moments, we will be joined by our financial expert, who analyzed…”

The blond woman in a navy dress and perfect blowout recites from the teleprompter. I wish I could answer her live. Trust me, I am aware of the monumental collapse I have created. There is no need to broadcast it. The banner changes to: TRISTAN ASHFORD, HEIR TO THE ASHFORD EMPIRE, LOSES BILLIONS IN MARKET VALUE AFTER EMERGENCY ASSET DUMP. I stare at the screen, holding my phone with too many call notifications to even count, and an image of a ship facing a hurricane comes to me. I am heading right to the center of it, and the only way out is through.

Running a hand over my face, I curse myself and every journalist who will delight themselves by picking me apart. I cannot wait for the article about inside sources talking about my mental state and how unsuited I am for the job. It is cliché, but what can you do? It’s bound to happen. They will squeeze the headline until there is no more juice to give. Until then, I will rebuild, slowly, in silence, until my success is too loud for them to ignore. Napoleon rebuilt after Leipzig with half of Europe marching toward Paris, I can survive a few analysts with bad haircuts. Would I do it again? Yes. Does it suck? Also yes. My phone buzzes in my hand. Nate.

“Hey,” I let out, pinching the bridge of my nose.

“Seeing what I’m seeing?”

“Uh-huh.”

“We’re so fucked it’s not even funny anymore.”

“It was never funny, Nate.”

“Uh, a little. You missed when some so-called expert earlier talked about our hierarchical system and how outdated we were in terms of management. Like it has anything to do with it.” He sighs. “How’s Ella?”

“Not that great,” I admit.

“Shit. If there’s anything I can do…” His mellow side showing.