The hospital room was quiet.
Dark.
Only the soft glow of monitors illuminated the space.
Outside the window, New York slept beneath a blanket of lights.
Inside, the steady rhythm of machines filled the silence.
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
Lillian sat beside the bed.
Still.
Exhausted.
At some point during the night, she'd fallen asleep.
Not intentionally.
Her body had simply given up.
Her head rested against the side of the mattress.
One arm folded beneath her.
The other hand still loosely holding Sebastian's.
She hadn't meant to stay this long.
But every time she'd thought about leaving, she'd looked at him.
Looked at the monitors.
Looked at the oxygen cannula beneath his nose.
And stayed.
So now she slept beside him.
Completely unaware that several hours had passed.
Or that Sebastian was waking up.
At first, consciousness returned slowly.
Painfully.
Everything felt heavy.
His head.
His limbs.
Even opening his eyes felt difficult.
A dull ache pulsed behind his forehead.
His throat felt dry.
His body felt like it had been hit by a truck.
Sebastian frowned slightly.
Hospital.
Again.
The realization came before his eyes even fully opened.
When he finally managed it, blurry shapes slowly came into focus.
White ceiling.
Dim lights.
Monitors.
A hospital room.
Of course.
His jaw tightened.
He remembered the office.
The reports.
The nosebleed.
Standing up.
Then nothing.
A blank space.
His gaze drifted sideways.
And stopped.
Lillian.
For a moment, Sebastian simply stared.
She was asleep.
Curled awkwardly in the chair beside him.
Clearly uncomfortable.
Clearly exhausted.
Still there.
The realization settled quietly inside him.
She stayed.
Despite everything.
She stayed.
Something tightened painfully in his chest.
Carefully, Sebastian shifted.
Trying to sit up.
Immediately regretting it.
A sharp wave of dizziness hit him.
He sucked in a breath.
The movement was enough.
Lillian's eyes snapped open.
For a second she looked completely disoriented.
Then she saw him.
And immediately sat upright.
"Don't."
Sebastian paused.
"...Good morning."
Lillian stared at him.
"It's three in the morning."
He considered that.
"Close enough."
Despite herself, a tiny laugh escaped her.
It lasted less than a second.
Then it vanished.
Because the reality of where they were returned immediately.
Sebastian leaned back against the pillow.
His body practically forced him to.
Neither spoke for a moment.
Then Sebastian noticed her eyes.
Red.
Swollen.
Like she hadn't slept.
Or had been crying.
His chest tightened.
"You've been crying."
Lillian looked away.
"You had a seizure."
The words hit harder than expected.
Sebastian fell silent.
Because there wasn't really anything to say.
He remembered enough.
Enough to know it must have been bad.
"Lillian—."
"You collapsed."
Her voice wasn't angry.
That somehow made it worse.
"You were unconscious."
She swallowed.
"The doctors said you were lucky someone saw you."
Sebastian looked down at the blanket.
For once, he didn't argue.
Didn't deflect.
Didn't joke.
Because he knew she was right.
The room fell quiet again.
Finally Lillian spoke.
"The doctor talked to me."
Sebastian already knew he wasn't going to enjoy whatever came next.
"What did he say?"
Lillian laughed softly.
A humorless sound.
"What do you think he said?"
Sebastian didn't answer.
Because he knew.
He knew exactly what doctors always said.
Stop drinking.
Rest.
Take care of yourself.
Things he'd ignored repeatedly.
Lillian looked directly at him.
"He said your condition is getting worse."
Sebastian remained silent.
"He said they're treating the complications."
A pause.
"But eventually there might be damage they can't reverse."
The words hung between them.
Heavy.
Unavoidable.
For the first time in a long time, Sebastian couldn't dismiss them.
Because they weren't coming from a doctor.
They were coming from Lillian.
And she looked terrified.
That frightened him more than the diagnosis itself.
"You almost died."
The sentence landed quietly.
No yelling.
No accusations.
Just truth.
Raw and painful.
Sebastian lowered his gaze.
For once, he had no defense.
No argument.
Nothing.
Because he wasn't sure she was wrong.
Several minutes passed.
The monitor continued its steady rhythm.
Then Lillian suddenly spoke again.
"You said her name."
Sebastian looked up.
"What?"
"You said Ellie's name."
His expression changed immediately.
A mixture of confusion and disbelief.
"I did?"
Lillian nodded.
"You were unconscious."
Her voice softened.
"And you said Ellie."
Sebastian stared at her.
For a moment he couldn't speak.
Because out of everything he could have said...
Out of every thought buried inside his head...
That was what surfaced.
Ellie.
His daughter.
A daughter he'd only known about for days.
Yet somehow already occupied every empty space in his mind.
The realization hit harder than expected.
His eyes lowered.
A small, shaky breath escaped him.
Lillian watched quietly.
Then she said something else.
"She knows."
Sebastian looked up immediately.
His heart skipped.
"What?"
"She knows who you are."
The room seemed to freeze.
For several seconds Sebastian simply stared.
Unable to process the words.
"She knows?"
Lillian nodded.
"I told her."
Fear arrived immediately.
Not relief.
Not happiness.
Fear.
"What did she say?"
The question came out too quickly.
Too desperately.
Lillian noticed.
So did Sebastian.
Neither mentioned it.
"She asked questions."
"What kind of questions?"
Lillian thought back.
"Where you were."
Sebastian's stomach dropped.
Of course.
"She asked why you didn't live with us."
The guilt hit like a punch.
His hands tightened around the blanket.
"What did you tell her?"
"That you didn't know about her."
A long silence followed.
Then:
"Was she upset?"
The question sounded smaller than Sebastian intended.
Almost fragile.
Lillian's expression softened.
"No."
His shoulders loosened slightly.
"She wasn't angry."
Another breath.
"She wasn't scared."
Sebastian closed his eyes briefly.
Thank God.
Then Lillian smiled.
A real smile this time.
"The first thing she asked was if you'd come back."
Everything inside Sebastian shattered.
Because he knew what he deserved.
He deserved anger.
Questions.
Resentment.
Not that.
Never that.
A little girl waiting for him to come back.
His eyes burned.
He turned his head slightly.
Trying to hide it.
But not quickly enough.
Lillian saw.
The moisture gathering in his eyes.
The way his jaw clenched.
The effort it took to stay composed.
And then one tear escaped.
Only one.
Rolling silently down his cheek.
Sebastian didn't wipe it away.
Didn't pretend it hadn't happened.
Because he was too tired.
Too emotional.
Too overwhelmed.
"I missed everything."
His voice was barely above a whisper.
Lillian's heart broke.
Because there was no bitterness in the statement.
Only grief.
Three years of it.
"I missed her first steps."
Lillian looked down.
"Probably."
"I missed her first words."
A nod.
"Her birthdays."
Another nod.
"Christmas."
Silence.
Sebastian swallowed hard.
"I missed all of it."
The pain in his voice was almost unbearable.
For a long moment neither spoke.
Then finally Sebastian whispered:
"I want to know her."
Lillian looked at him.
Really looked at him.
And saw something she hadn't seen in years.
Not a CEO.
Not the man obsessed with work.
Not the man hiding behind alcohol.
Just a father.
A father who'd discovered his daughter far too late.
And desperately wanted more time.
"I know."
Sebastian stared at the ceiling.
Listening to the monitor.
Feeling the exhaustion pulling at him again.
Then quietly:
"Can I see her?"
The question lingered between them.
Lillian studied him for several seconds.
The oxygen tubing.
The bruised exhaustion beneath his eyes.
The hospital bed.
Then she finally answered.
"When you're strong enough."
Sebastian looked at her.
Searching her face.
There was no rejection there.
No refusal.
Just concern.
And hope.
For the first time in a very long time, Sebastian found himself wanting something more than another drink.
More than another business deal.
More than another quarter of profits.
He wanted recovery.
Because somewhere in New York, a little girl with blonde hair and blue eyes was waiting for him to come back.
And Sebastian Wolfe intended to keep that promise.