Chapter 9 - The Eve of War
Monday night fell over the Bedford estate in a blanket of quiet, freezing silence.
In the small kitchen off the main dining hall, Sarah stood by the stove, stirring a pot of chicken soup. The warm, homey scent filled the grand, austere mansion with a strange, beautiful reality.
Adrian walked into the kitchen, his coat replaced by a soft charcoal sweater, his arm still resting in the black sling. He stopped near the island counter, watching her.
"Lily's asleep," he said softly. "She made me read the dinosaur book three times."
Sarah smiled faintly, setting her wooden spoon down. "She loves that book. Her grandfather bought it for her... well, your father's estate paid for it, I suppose."
She turned around, leaning her back against the counter, holding her elbows as she looked at him across the warm kitchen.
"Vincent told me you're leaving tomorrow night," she said quiet.
"It’s just business, Sarah."
"Don't lie to me, Adrian," she whispered, her green eyes searching his face with intense, painful clarity. "Not anymore. I saw the doctor leave your study yesterday. I saw the look on her face. And I saw the security teams doubled at the gate three hours ago. You’re going to fight Volkov."
Adrian didn't answer right away. He walked over to the counter, stopping just two feet away from her, the warm light of the stove reflecting in his dark eyes.
"Four years ago, when I sent you away," Adrian whispered, "I told myself I was doing it to give you a normal life. A life without gunshots, without wiretaps, without waking up at 3:00 AM wondering if a car idling outside was filled with men coming to kill us."
"I hated you for it," Sarah whispered, her eyes shining with tears. "Every single day for four years, I hated you for taking my husband away and leaving me with a duffel bag of money."
"I know," Adrian murmured. He reached out his right hand, his fingers gently brushing a loose strand of brown hair away from her cheek. His touch was feather-light, almost hesitant, as if he feared she might shatter under his grip. "But sitting in that hospital bed three days ago, listening to my heart monitor tick down, I realized something, Sarah."
"What?"
"A normal life without you wasn't a life at all," he choked out, his voice raw with four years of buried grief. "It was just waiting to die. I built an empire, I controlled a harbor, I commanded two hundred men... and I was the poorest man in this city because I didn't have my wife and daughter."
Sarah let out a soft, broken sob. She took a step forward, closing the distance between them, and rested her forehead gently against his good shoulder. Her arms wrapped around his waist, holding him with a fierce, desperate strength that shook her whole frame.
"Don't die tomorrow, Adrian," she wept into his sweater, her voice muffled against his chest. "Please. Don't leave her with another drawing of a man with no face. Don't leave me alone again."
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Adrian raised his right arm, wrapping it tightly around her shoulders, pulling her close against his chest, feeling the warm, rapid beat of her heart against his ribs—a perfect, healthy rhythm that seemed to steady his own damaged pulse.
"I’m coming back, Sarah," Adrian swore into her hair, his eyes burning with absolute, uncompromising resolve. "I swear to you on my daughter’s life. I am coming home."
