Chapter 89 Equal Ground
The bedroom was dark except for the thin slice of moonlight slipping through the balcony curtains.
Dorian lay on the sofa, one arm behind his head, the other resting on his chest. He had been staring at the ceiling for what felt like hours. Sleep would not come. His mind kept circling back to the meeting, to the glove incident, to the way Veyra had laughed when he asked about ulterior motives.
Across the room, Veyra shifted in bed. The sheets rustled. Then her lips parted.
“One day...” Her voice was barely there. A breath more than a word. “Same height... as you.”
Dorian turned his head toward the bed. He could see the outline of her body under the duvet, her dark hair spread across the pillow.
She rolled over. Her breathing deepened.
He smiled into the darkness.
Same height as you.
He repeated the words in his head. She wanted to stand where he stood. Not beside him as an equal, above him? No. Beside him. At the same level.
He chuckled softly.
Her ambitions were not small.
Most people in her position would have been satisfied with safety. A roof. Food. Money in the bank. She had all of that now. She could have stopped. She could have rested.
Instead, she trained until her hands bled. Studied medicine in every spare moment. Negotiated with gangsters. Planned a business.
Dorian closed his eyes.
He reached into his pocket. His fingers found the small brown bottle. The glass was warm from his body heat.
He had meant to leave it on the table. Instead, he had carried it with him all day.
He pulled out the dropper and squeezed. One drop landed on his wrist. He touched his wrists together, then brought them to his nose.
The scent was fresh. Herbal. Clean. Valerian root, he recognized that. Lavender and something slightly sweet. Chamomile, maybe.
He had not expected it to work.
He set the bottle on the floor beside the sofa. He closed his eyes.
The next thing he knew, sunlight was pouring through the balcony doors.
The curtains had been left open. The morning light slanted across the floor, warm and golden. Birds chirped somewhere outside. A lawnmower hummed in the distance.
Dorian blinked. His eyes focused on the ceiling. Then on the window. Then on his phone, which had fallen to the floor beside the sofa.
He sat up. His back cracked. His shoulders rolled.
He had slept. All night. Without waking once.
He could not remember the last time that had happened.
He picked up his phone.
8:47 AM.
He stared at the screen. The numbers did not change.
He was usually awake by six. Out of bed by six‑fifteen. In the office by seven‑thirty. Today, he had slept through his alarm. He had not even heard it.
Across the room, Veyra was folding the duvet. She moved quickly, efficiently. The sheets were already tucked tight at the corners. The pillows were fluffed and stacked.
She wore black leggings and a fitted tank top. Her hair was pulled back in a high ponytail. Small beads of sweat dotted her temples, she had already been awake for a while.
“Good morning,” she said. Her voice was bright. Clear.
Dorian ran a hand through his hair. “Good morning.”
He stood up. His head was clear. No dull ache behind his eyes. No pressure in his temples.
He looked at the small brown bottle on the floor. Then at Veyra.
The oil had worked.
She had given him something that actually worked.
“You look well rested,” she said. She tucked the last corner of the duvet under the mattress and smoothed the top.
“I am.”
“Good.”
She smiled. Then she grabbed a water bottle from the nightstand and tucked it into her small gym bag.
“No shooting range this morning?” he asked.
“Leon changed my schedule.” She zipped the bag and slung it over her shoulder. “Physical conditioning and equipment training in the morning. Marksmanship in the afternoon.”
“That’s new.”
“He said I need to build endurance. Core strength. Shooting alone won’t make me strong.”
Dorian nodded. He watched as she checked her bag again. Water bottle. Towel. Medical tape.
His eyes dropped to her hands.
The black gloves were on her fingers. The lizard skin scales caught the morning light. The metal knuckles gleamed. She had put them on before he even woke up.
The corners of his mouth curved upward.
She had kept them. After all her protests about value and damage and throwing them away, she had put them on.
“What?” she asked.
“Nothing.”
She tilted her head. She did not believe him. But she did not push.
“See you later,” she said.
She walked out the door. Her ponytail swung behind her.
Dorian stood in the empty bedroom.
He stretched his arms above his head. His shoulders rolled back. His joints cracked. His spine lengthened.
He felt light. Unusual. Unburdened.
He walked to the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face. He looked at himself in the mirror. The shadows under his eyes were lighter. The lines around his mouth were softer.
He dressed in a dark suit. White shirt. No tie.
He picked up the small brown bottle from the floor. He held it in his palm for a moment. Then he slipped it into his jacket pocket.
Downstairs, the living room was empty.
The family had already eaten breakfast. The table was cleared. The newspapers were folded.
Dorian walked to the window and looked out at the garden. The roses were in bloom. Red and pink and white. A gardener trimmed the hedges.
He thought about Veyra. About her sleep‑talking. About her ambition.
One day, same height as you.
He smiled.
Then he walked to the front door.
*
*
The estate gym was bright and white.
Fluorescent lights hummed overhead. Racks of dumbbells lined one wall. Kettlebells sat on a low shelf. A pull‑up bar hung in the doorway. A full‑length mirror covered the far wall.
Veyra stood in the center of the room, facing Leon.
“Marksmanship first,” Leon said. “Then strength.”
“What about reading?”
“After training. If you have energy left.”
She nodded. She did not have energy left. She was already tired. But she would not say that.
They started with dry firing.
Leon had her stand at the line, the Nightblade in her hands, the magazine empty. She practiced her stance. Her grip. Her sight alignment.
“Breathe,” Leon said. “In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Squeeze on the exhale.”
She squeezed.
The trigger clicked. The gun did not move.
“Better.” Leon walked around her, checking her posture. “Your shoulders are still too high. Relax them.”
She dropped her shoulders.
“Again.”
She squeezed. Click.
“Good. Reload.”
She loaded a fresh magazine and fired at the target. The bullet hit the outer ring. Not great. Not terrible.
“Again.”
She fired again. Closer to the center.
“Again.”
By the time they finished marksmanship, her arms were shaking.
Strength training was worse.
Leon started with squats. Bodyweight first. Then a light barbell across her shoulders.
“Keep your chest up,” he said. “Look straight ahead.”
She lowered herself. Her thighs burned. Her back strained.
“Up.”
She pushed through her heels. Her knees wobbled. She stood.
“Again.”
She did ten. Then fifteen. Then twenty.
Her legs felt like wet paper.
“Lunges,” Leon said.
She lunged forward. Her right knee bent. Her left knee dropped toward the floor. She pushed back up. Her quadriceps screamed.
“Switch.”
She lunged with her left leg. Her balance wavered. She caught herself on the wall.
“Keep going.”
She did three sets of twelve. By the end, sweat dripped down her face. Her shirt was soaked.
Leon had her do push‑ups next. Full push‑ups, not the knee version.
Her arms gave out after eight. She collapsed onto the mat.
“Get up,” Leon said.
She pushed herself up. Her triceps trembled.
“Three more.”
She did two. Her arms buckled on the third. Her chest hit the mat.
“Rest for thirty seconds. Then planks.”
She lay on the mat and stared at the ceiling. Her lungs burned. Her heart pounded in her ears.
Thirty seconds passed.
“Up.”
She rolled onto her stomach and pushed herself into a plank. Her body was a straight line from shoulders to ankles. Her core tightened.
“Hold.”
She held. Her abs shook. Her lower back ached.
“Fifteen seconds.”
She clenched her jaw.
“Ten.”
She closed her eyes.
“Five. Three. Two. One. Down.”
She dropped to the mat. She did not move.
After the gym, she limped to her bedroom.
The shower was hot. She stood under the spray until the water ran cold. Her muscles stopped trembling, but the ache remained.
She dried off. Pulled on loose sweatpants and an oversized shirt. Her hair was still damp when she sat on the bed and opened her medical textbook.
The words blurred. She blinked and refocused.
She read two pages. Then three. Then five.
A knock came at the door.
“Veyra!”
Lily bounced into the room. She carried a coloring book and a fistful of crayons. Her pigtails flopped as she ran.
“Can you color with me?”
Veyra looked at the textbook. Then at Lily’s face.
She closed the book.
“Of course.”
They sat on the floor. Lily opened the coloring book to a page with a princess and a dragon.
“You do the dragon,” Lily said. “I’ll do the princess.”
Veyra picked up a green crayon. She colored the dragon’s scales. Her strokes were slow and careful.
Lily talked about school. About her friends. About the new puppy she wanted. Her mother had said no, but Lily was working on her.
Veyra listened. She drew crooked flowers in the background.
“That’s pretty,” Lily said.
“Thank you.”
“You’re good at coloring.”
“You’re better.”
Lily beamed.
That night, Veyra walked back to her bedroom.
The hallway was dark. The lights had been dimmed for the evening. Her footsteps were heavy on the carpet.
She pushed open the door. The room was empty. Dorian was not back yet.
She sat on the edge of the bed. She meant to change into her pajamas. She meant to brush her teeth. She meant to stay awake until he returned.
Instead, she lay back.
Her eyes closed.
The ceiling disappeared.
Dorian found her there an hour later.
She was sprawled across the duvet, still in her day clothes. One arm hung off the side of the bed. Her damp hair had dried in messy tangles across the pillow. Her mouth was slightly open.
Her textbook lay open on the floor where it had fallen.
He walked to the bed. He nudged her shoulder.
“Veyra.”
She did not move.
He nudged harder.
“The covers.”
Her eyes fluttered open. She blinked at the ceiling. Then at him.
“Sorry,” she mumbled. “I sat down and...”
She pushed herself up. Her hair was matted on one side. A red mark from the pillow creased her cheek.
“I’ll change.”
Dorian stepped back. He sat on the sofa and pulled out his phone.
His voice, when he spoke, carried less ice than usual. Just barely.
“Don’t fall asleep in your clothes again.”
“I won’t.”
She walked to the closet. Her steps were slow. Heavy.
Dorian scrolled through emails. He was not reading them. He was listening to her move around in the closet. The rustle of fabric. The soft thud of shoes hitting the floor.
She came out wearing loose pajamas. Soft grey. The fabric draped over her frame.
“Goodnight,” she said. Her voice was thick with drowsiness. Her eyes were already half closed.
“Goodnight,” Dorian replied.
She climbed into bed. The sheets rustled. She pulled the duvet up to her chin.
Then silence.
Dorian set down his phone and he watched her sleep.
Her face was relaxed. No tension in her jaw. No furrow in her brow. But her body was not still. She shifted every few minutes. Once, she moaned softly—pain from the training. Her shoulder. Her back. Her legs.
He remembered her sleep‑talking from the night before.
One day, same height as you.
He thought about her ambition. Her refusal to quit. Her stubbornness. She had every excuse to stop. She was pregnant. She was injured. She was tired. But she kept going.
She possessed no small measure of both.
He turned off the lamp and the room went dark. Dorian lay on the sofa. He listened to her breathe.
Slow. Deep. Steady.
She murmured something. A word. He could not make it out. Then silence and he closed his eyes, for the second night in a row, sleep came quickly.