The ICU was silent except for the rhythmic beeping of monitors and the soft hiss of ventilators breathing for those who couldn't breathe themselves.
Alexander sat in the chair between his wife and daughter, one hand resting on Emily's pale fingers, the other pressed flat against the glass of the incubator. He hadn't moved in three hours. Hadn't eaten. Hadn't slept. Just watched the two people who mattered most fight battles he couldn't fight for them.
Emily's chest rose and fell with mechanical precision, the ventilator doing the work her traumatized body couldn't manage yet. Her face was peaceful in unconsciousness, almost serene, with no hint of the fierce woman who'd destroyed Julian's coup hours ago. How many hours? Time had stopped meaning anything.
And their daughter—
God, she was so small.
