That Telling MomentChapter 27

Lysander had developed an intimate relationship with the vinyl chair outside Stephen’s hospital room. After seventeen hours of uninterrupted sitting, he’d catalogued its every flaw: the crack along the left armrest that caught at his designer jeans, the mysterious stain on the right corner that he’d decided was either very old coffee or something he absolutely did not want to contemplate, and the precise angle at which the back support surrendered to the laws of physics.

He’d become a connoisseur of vending machine coffee, having sampled every possible combination the sad little machine at the end of the corridor had to offer. Double sugar, no milk. No sugar, splash of milk. All the sugar packets and enough milk to make it practically a latte. Each one tasted exactly the same: like hot, bitter disappointment with notes of aluminium.

His bum had gone numb approximately twelve hours ago. His back was staging a rebellion. His heart felt like it had been put through a cheese grater.

Stephen was in there. Stephen was in there, broken and battered, because Lysander hadn’t listened.

When his father had called last night, Lysander had been in the middle of a livestream with a dildo in his hand, chatting with subscribers, flirting shamelessly for tips. The moment he’d heard “Your brother has been attacked,” the Theo persona had evaporated like morning mist, leaving only raw, primal terror.

He’d ended the stream without explanation, thrown on clothes, and made it to the hospital in record time, breaking a shit ton of traffic laws in the process. Only to be told that Stephen was in with the doctors and no, he absolutely could not see him yet, and would he please take a seat in the waiting area.

He’d been waiting ever since.

The door to Stephen’s room finally opened, and Lysander straightened so quickly his spine made an alarming cracking sound. Their father emerged, looking exhausted in a way that went beyond physical tiredness. His eyes were red-rimmed, his collar askew, his hands shoved deep in his pockets.

Their eyes met across the corridor. Lysander’s breath caught. He braced for it. The blame. The accusation.

Instead, Colin crossed the space between them in three steps and wrapped his arms around Lysander, pulling him close with surprising strength for someone who barely reached his shoulder.

“Go home, Sander,” Colin said softly, his voice muffled against Lysander’s chest.

Lysander blinked rapidly, fighting back the hot sting of tears. “He hates me, Daddy,” he whispered, the childhood address slipping out unbidden.

Colin pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, hands still gripping Lysander’s arms. “Only for a little bit, Sander. But he’ll come around. You’re his twin. His other half. Stephen will forgive.”

“I told him the package that pervert sent him wasn’t a big deal. You didn’t hear him on the phone right before…” Lysander’s voice cracked. “He was so angry, Dad. And he was right to be. I ignored him when he tried to warn me.”

Colin sighed, and the sound aged him ten years. “Your brother’s angry, yes. He’s hurt and scared and looking for somewhere to put all those feelings. Right now, that place is you. But underneath all that, he loves you. That doesn’t just disappear.”

“I should have listened. I should have taken it seriously when he told me about the package. If I’d just—”

“Stop,” Colin interrupted gently. “What happened to Stephen is terrible, but it’s not your doing. The only person responsible is the man who attacked him. I need you both to understand that.”

Lysander nodded automatically, though the guilt still sat heavy as lead in his stomach. “Can I see him?”

“Not yet,” Colin said, guiding Lysander back to the vinyl chair and sitting beside him. “Go home, Sander. Give him some space, and we’ll do a family dinner when he’s feeling up to it. You’ll talk then.”

“In a bit, Daddy,” Lysander said, sounding far younger than his twenty-five years. “I just want to be near him. Even if he doesn’t want to see me.”

Colin studied him for a long moment, then nodded. “Okay then. I’m going to go get us some coffee.”

“Not from the vending machine, please,” Lysander grimaced. “I think they’re harvesting the beans from the hospital car park.”

That earned him the ghost of a smile as Colin stood. “There’s a café on the ground floor. Won’t be much better, but it might actually qualify as coffee under EU regulations.”

As Colin disappeared down the corridor, Lysander slumped back against the vinyl chair. He stared at the ceiling tiles, counting the water stains, picking at the crack in the armrest. All his charm, all his carefully cultivated skills at manipulation and persuasion, all the influence he’d built online. None of it could help Stephen. None of it meant anything in a hospital corridor at three in the morning.

His gaze drifted to the small pile of Stephen’s belongings on the chair beside him. The police had returned his personal effects: wallet, keys, mobile phone with its shattered screen that somehow still functioned. Lysander hesitated for approximately three seconds before picking it up.

The screen illuminated, requesting facial recognition. Lysander almost laughed. Being identical twins had its advantages, even if Stephen constantly claimed that his bone structure was “clearly superior” and that Lysander had “the early onset of jowls.” He held the phone up, and it unlocked without hesitation, the technology unable to distinguish between their identical faces.

“Sorry, Stevie,” Lysander murmured, swiping through to the contacts. “Desperate times and all that.”

He scrolled past various boring work contacts with titles like “Harlow (DO NOT CALL AFTER 8PM)” and “Jenkins (ABSOLUTE PILLOCK)” until he found what he was looking for. Ryland. No “Dr.” No “David.” Just the surname, bare and telling.

Lysander hesitated, thumb hovering over the name. Stephen had been tight-lipped about whatever had happened between him and the alpha scientist, but his scent changed whenever Ryland came up in conversation. Bitter and hurt beneath the practised indifference. After Geneva, he’d thrown himself into work with manic intensity, and that had said enough.

He tapped the contact and began typing:

This isn’t Stephen. It’s his twin brother, Lysander. We’ve never met, but I know who you are, and I know something happened between you two. I don’t care what it was. Stephen’s in hospital. Royal London. Fourth floor, east wing. He was attacked last night. He won’t want to see you, but he needs you. This is me doing the one thing I can to help him right now. Ball’s in your court, scientist man.

Lysander stared at the message for a long moment, then hit send before he could reconsider. He placed the phone carefully back with Stephen’s belongings, arranging them exactly as they’d been.

He’d caused this mess, even if Dad would never say so. The least he could do was try to bring in someone who might actually be able to help clean it up.

“I’m sorry, Stevie,” he whispered, glancing at the closed door that separated him from his twin. “I hope someday you’ll forgive me.”

The phone buzzed. Lysander couldn’t help glancing at the notification that flashed across the shattered screen.

Ryland: On my way. ETA 24 minutes, accounting for current traffic patterns.

Lysander smiled faintly. Even in crisis, the man was precise to a fault. Stephen had always gone for that type. Intense, analytical, capable of solving complex equations but mystified by basic human warmth. Apparently, that hadn’t changed.

He settled back into the vinyl chair, preparing for the inevitable fallout when Stephen discovered what he’d done. But for the first time since he’d arrived at the hospital, something had shifted. He’d done something. It might be the wrong thing. Stephen might hate him even more for it, but it was something.