At exactly 9:00 a.m., Ashton's carefully rehearsed interview went live across Holospace. His face, crisp and radiant under stage lighting, answered questions with poise and polish.
But the real Ashton Hall was nowhere near the studio. He was in a private elevator descending to the garage level, dark hoodie over his head, jaw clenched.
He wasn't going to the gym.
He was going to the hospital.
St. Eilidh's Medical Center loomed like a quiet fortress of mercy. Ashton had chosen it five years ago to house Connor. Now, it was housing someone else—someone who had taken his advice, pushed too far, and collapsed.
The ICU nurse recognized him immediately. Eyes widened. "Mr. Hall?"
"I need to see the boy. The one who…" He swallowed. "Who followed my 5:00 a.m. protocol."
She hesitated. Then nodded. "He's in Room 14C. But his sister's there. She's… upset."
He braced himself.
Inside the room, machines beeped steadily. A pale, young man lay unconscious. Tubes. Bandages. Ashen lips.
A girl in a denim jacket turned.
"You're him," she said. No warmth. No awe.
Ashton stepped inside. "I'm Ashton Hall. I'm…sorry."
"No you're not."
He didn't deny it.
"He believed you," she spat. "He got up every day at four. Didn't eat. Drank ice water. Pushed harder. He thought if he suffered more, he'd deserve success."
Ashton's throat closed.
"I'll pay his bills," he whispered. "All of them."
"He doesn't need your money. He needs his life back."
---
Back in his car, Ashton's mask cracked. He leaned forward, forehead against the steering wheel.
The lie was catching up. The image. The empire.
His phone buzzed.
Luca Derrane: You saw him, didn't you? Now do the right thing. Talk. Before this gets uglier.
Ashton closed his eyes. For the first time in a long time, he had no plan.
And somewhere, deep in the hidden corners of his memory, a younger voice whispered:
"We can't both be strong, Ash. One of us has to break."
Connor's voice.
And maybe… just maybe…
It was time to break.