Martha Anderson opened her eyes three hours later.
She was in a private suite with a view of the East River.
Beatrix was holding her hand.
"Mom," she sobbed. "You're okay."
Martha smiled weakly. She pulled the oxygen mask down.
"Bea," she rasped. "Where is he?"
"Who?"
"Carlyle. I heard his voice."
Beatrix hesitated. "He's... he's outside."
"Bring him in."
"Mom, you need to rest."
"Bring him in," Martha insisted, her grip surprisingly strong. "Please."
Beatrix went to the door.
Carlyle was sitting on a plastic chair in the hallway, reading emails on his phone.
He looked up.
"She wants to see you."
Carlyle stood up. He buttoned his coat.
He walked into the room.
His demeanor changed instantly.
The arrogance vanished. The coldness melted.
He walked to the bed, his gaze fixed on Martha. Beatrix saw his hand clench into a fist at his side, just for a second, before he forced it to relax. He took Martha's hand gently, his touch careful, deliberate.
"Hello, Martha," he said softly.
"Carlyle," she whispered. "You came."
"Of course I came."
Martha looked at him, her eyes cloudy but serious.
"I know I don't have long."
"Don't say that," Beatrix interrupted.
"Hush, Bea." Martha looked at Carlyle. "I need to know... I need to know she'll be safe."
She squeezed his hand.
"The people who hated her father... they are still out there. Promise me, Carlyle."
Beatrix's eyes widened.
She shook her head frantically at Carlyle.
Don't do it. Don't lie to her.
Carlyle saw Beatrix's panic.
He looked back at the dying woman.
"Promise me you will take care of her," Martha begged. "Promise me you won't let her fall."
Carlyle took a deep breath.
He gripped Martha's hand with both of his.
"I promise," he said, his voice steady and solemn. "As long as I breathe, no one will hurt her. She will always be under my protection."
Martha let out a long sigh of relief.
"Good," she whispered. "My good boy."
She closed her eyes and drifted back into sleep.
Beatrix felt like she couldn't breathe.
She followed Carlyle out into the hallway.
"How could you?" she hissed. "We are getting divorced next week! Why would you give her false hope?"
Carlyle leaned against the wall.
He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket.
He put one in his mouth but didn't light it.
"Would you rather she died worrying?" he asked.
"It's a lie!"
"Is it?" Carlyle looked at her. "I said I'd protect you. I didn't say I'd stay married to you."
"You're playing word games with a dying woman!"
"I'm giving her peace," he said. "Something you seem incapable of doing."
His phone rang.
Beatrix saw the screen. Gene.
Carlyle looked at it.
He silenced it.
Then he powered the phone off.
Beatrix stared at him.
"She's calling you."
"I know."
"Why did you turn it off?"
Carlyle sat back down on the uncomfortable plastic chair.
"Because I promised your mother I'd stay," he said. "And I don't break promises."
"You're staying?" Beatrix asked, stunned. "Here? All night?"
"Go to sleep, Beatrix," he said, closing his eyes. "I'm not going anywhere."
Beatrix watched him.
He looked exhausted.
He looked... noble.
It was confusing. It was infuriating.
She went back into the room and curled up on the visitor cot.
But she kept the door cracked open, watching the sliver of his shadow on the hallway floor.
