CHAPTER 139: "HE’S SLIPPED INTO A COMA,"

"He’s slipped into a coma," the doctor said. "A deep one. We don’t know if—" He stopped, sighing heavily, the corners of his lips pulling down. "We don’t know when, or if, he’ll wake up."

The words struck Maxwell like a blade driven straight through his chest—sharp, merciless, final.

His knees buckled beneath him, his weight crashing down until his palms smacked the cold, sterile tile floor just to keep himself upright.

The chill of the tiles bit into his skin, grounding him in a reality he wished he could escape.

His throat tightened as if invisible hands were squeezing it shut, and a sob clawed its way out despite his desperate attempt to choke it back. His lips trembled, twisted between denial and despair.

No. No, not like this. Not when he just—just made me promise. Not when he pushed his whole life onto me.

Maxwell’s chest heaved violently, each breath ragged and uneven, his tears streaming freely down his cheeks.

The salty trails stung his skin, blurring his vision until the hospital room dissolved into shadows and shapes.

He pressed the heel of his hand against his wet face, but the tears kept spilling, unstoppable.

On the bed, Logan lay utterly still, his chest rising only because of the fragile rhythm of the machine.

The faint beeps continued, cold and unfeeling, a cruel reminder that he was alive but unreachable.

The reality tore Maxwell apart—the one person who had trusted him, who had handed him everything without hesitation, now lay motionless, trapped somewhere between life and death.

And worst of all, the echo of Logan’s last words scorched his mind.

Promise me. Be me. Live as Logan Steve.

Maxwell buried his face in his trembling hands, his shoulders shaking as silent cries wracked his body.

His fingers dug into his scalp, his breath coming out in broken, uneven gasps.

Behind him, the doctor’s footsteps faded into the corridor, leaving Maxwell alone with the suffocating silence—except for the steady, merciless beeping of the machine.

The room felt colder, heavier, as though the walls themselves leaned in to press the weight of the truth against him.

The world had just thrust upon him a life he never wanted, a burden he never asked for, and a promise he could never escape.

Logan Steve—the heir, the son, the man—was gone.

And in his place, Maxwell was left behind, clutching a name that was never his, a destiny he had never chosen, and a future that terrified him to his core.

---

The Thompson mansion that afternoon was unusually quiet, a silence that carried not heaviness but anticipation.

Sunlight streamed through the tall glass windows, laying soft golden patterns across the polished floor.

The air carried the faint fragrance of lilies, freshly arranged in the vases lining the walls, their petals glowing in the light.

Grandma Lisa sat regally on the velvet couch in the grand parlor, her frame upright, her eyes sharp even as her hands busied themselves with notes and sketches.

A pen danced between her fingers, pausing every so often as she adjusted her spectacles and drew another line across the parchment resting on her lap.

The soft rustle of her pen against the paper blended with the ticking of the grandfather clock.

She wasn’t a woman to forget things—least of all her own birthday. To her, every event was a stage, and this one would be no different.

Her lips pressed together in concentration, then curved into a small, satisfied smile as she tapped the pen lightly.

"This year," she murmured, more to herself than anyone else, "it won’t just be about me. It will be about family, about legacy. And they will see her. They will see Julie."

Her husband, Denovan, sat nearby with a book closed across his knees. He wasn’t reading.

He had been watching her for the past half hour with quiet amusement, the corners of his lips turned upward.

His wife—sharp, commanding, tireless even at her age—still carried the same fire that had drawn him to her decades ago.

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Lisa," he said softly, breaking the silence, "you’re sketching like an architect preparing a royal feast."

Lisa lifted her eyes, her pen pausing midair. Her face softened when she looked at him. "Isn’t that what it should be, Denovan? A royal feast. This family... this house... this name. Everything has to shine."

Her eyes glinted, full of both pride and excitement. Then, with a sudden burst of warmth, she smiled. It was the kind of smile that wrinkled her eyes but made her look younger, softer.

"And I want it to be the day they see Julie for who she is—the one Roman chose, the woman worthy of our family. She will stand beside him, and no one will doubt."

Denovan chuckled, shaking his head slightly, his silver hair catching the light. "Ah, Lisa, you speak as if you are presenting a queen to the court."

"Why not?" Lisa’s chin lifted proudly. "She is delicate, she is beautiful, and she has a strength she doesn’t yet realize. I see it in her eyes."

And he continued "Roman may have kept their marriage a secret, but I say, let the secret bloom into the brightest revelation on that day. Let them all know she is not just his wife but the new madam of this house."

The air around them felt heavier with her words, but not oppressive—alive with expectation. Denovan leaned back, studying her with a novelist’s eyes.

He had spent years observing people, turning lives into characters and moments into prose, but his wife still fascinated him.

"You know," he said with a thoughtful smile, "if I were to write this moment, I would describe you like this: a woman of fire and iron, sitting in her golden cage, plotting not for herself but for the future of her lineage.

Her eyes shine with mischief, her heart beats with pride, and her hands—ah, those hands—cannot stop shaping the destiny of others."

Lisa’s laughter rang out suddenly, warm and genuine. "Golden cage? Denovan, must you always be dramatic?"

He grinned, watching the way her laughter lit her face. "It’s the novelist in me, I can’t help it. But I’ll tell you one thing—I’m glad Roman had the wisdom to choose Julie. For all his stubbornness, he managed to surprise us with delicacy."

Lisa’s eyes softened, her lips curving again, this time with a gentler affection.

She turned her gaze toward the wide windows, as though seeing Roman and Julie’s silhouettes there.

"Yes," she whispered, almost to herself. "He surprised us indeed. But it’s not just delicacy. That girl has survived storms already, though she doesn’t speak of them. I can feel it. And she... she will bring warmth to this house again."

For a moment, the room went quiet, filled only by the ticking of the clock and the distant sound of servants moving about in preparation.

Denovan reached out, placing his hand over hers, steadying the pen she had forgotten she was holding.

"You’re smiling, Lisa," he said, his voice low, affectionate. "And when you smile like that, I know—you’re not just thinking of a birthday. You’re thinking of family, of blood, of future."

She squeezed his hand back, her grip still surprisingly firm. "Yes, Denovan. Family, blood, future. This house has seen enough shadows. Now it’s time for light."

Denovan’s chest swelled with quiet pride, his gaze lingering on his wife’s face, memorizing every line, every spark in her eyes.

She was planning her birthday, yes—but more than that, she was planning the moment Julie would no longer be an outsider, but their own.

And in that parlor, surrounded by sunlight and silence, hope bloomed quietly between them.

Meanwhile....

Abigail leaned back against the couch, her fingers drumming against the armrest.

Each tap was sharp, deliberate, like the ticking of a clock.

Her lips moved before her voice followed, as though she were savoring each word.

"They all think he’s untouchable now... Grand Lisa, the great Thompson family, even that fragile little doll he parades around as his wife." She spat the last word like it was bitter.

"Wife." A humorless laugh cut the air. "She’s nothing but a temporary amusement. A shadow standing where I should be."

Her eyes narrowed as her nails scraped against the fabric, leaving faint scratches.

"She doesn’t know him like I do. She hasn’t seen him at his weakest, broken under my hands, begging to clear his name while I..." A smile curved slowly, cruelly. "...while I destroyed him with a single tear."

She rose from the couch, moving toward the window, her silhouette outlined in the pale city glow.

Her reflection stared back—wild hair, fever-bright eyes, a face both beautiful and terrifying in its determination.

She leaned close, whispering to the glass as though speaking directly to him.

"You belong to me, Roman Thompson. You were marked the day I chose you. And I will mark you again."

Her hand pressed against the cold pane, her fingertips trembling with excitement. "She will fall. That sweet-faced Julia—Julienne, or whatever name she wears now—will fall.

The family will turn on her, society will tear her apart, and when she’s crushed under their weight, where will you run?" Her voice dipped lower, husky and venom-laced. "Back to me. Always back to me."

She turned away sharply, pacing again, her laughter slicing the silence. "I know where to press. Which strings to pull. One whisper here, one scandal there..."

" they’ll never see it coming. And when the pieces scatter, I’ll be the only one standing beside you, like I was always meant to be."