Chapter Ninety Two

Chapter 92
The sterile silence of the hospital room clung to Jemima like a shroud. The faint beeping of machines was the only sound that punctuated the air, each beat a cruel reminder that she was still here—still alive—when part of her wished she wasn't.
She turned her head toward the window, staring at the faint gray light of early morning filtering through the blinds. Her body felt heavier than it ever had, as if the weight of her memories had settled into her very bones.
But something was different now. She could feel it—a shift, a presence lingering in the back of her mind. It wasn't just her anymore.
"Are you awake?"
The voice startled her, sharp yet familiar, as though it had echoed through her mind a thousand times before. Jemima stiffened, her heart pounding.
She turned her head slowly, her eyes scanning the empty room. "Who's there?"
There was no answer. Just silence. But she knew better now.
"Jemma?" she whispered, her voice trembling.
A soft laugh echoed faintly, as though coming from somewhere deep inside her. "You finally said my name."
Jemima flinched, her pulse quickening. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing the voice away, but it didn't fade. It never did.
"You're not real," Jemima whispered harshly, curling her hands into fists.
"Not real?" Jemma's voice turned sharp, cutting through Jemima's thoughts like a knife. "I'm as real as you are. And you know it."
"Leave me alone," Jemima choked out.
"I can't." The voice softened, but it carried an edge of anger beneath the surface. "You think you can just ignore me? After everything we've been through? After what he did to us?"
Jemima's breath caught in her throat, her chest tightening painfully. "Don't," she pleaded. "Don't bring him up."
"You don't get to choose anymore," Jemma snapped. "You've been running from it for years. But it's time to remember, Jemima. It's time to see the truth."
Before Jemima could protest, a searing pain erupted in her skull. She cried out, clutching her head as the world around her seemed to twist and blur. The hospital room faded, replaced by shadows and echoes—fragments of a life she'd buried long ago.
The Past
The smell of whiskey hit her first. It clung to the air, thick and suffocating, mixing with the faint metallic scent of blood. Jemima—no, she was younger here, a girl no older than thirteen, she was twelve —stood frozen in the doorway, her small hands trembling at her sides.
"Where do you think you're going?"
Her father's voice slurred through the darkness, heavy with drink. Damien Valerian sat slouched in an armchair, his bloodshot eyes locking onto her like a predator spotting prey.
Jemima tried to back away, but her father's gaze pinned her in place. "I asked you a question, girl," he growled, his voice low and dangerous.
"I—I was just going to bed," she whispered, her voice barely audible.
Damien laughed—a cruel, hollow sound that sent chills down her spine. "To bed? So you can pretend you don't hear me? Pretend I don't exist?"
"No, I—"
"Don't lie to me!" he roared, lurching to his feet. Jemima flinched as he staggered toward her, the bottle in his hand crashing to the floor with a shatter of glass.
"Please," she whispered, tears welling in her eyes. "I didn't mean to upset you."
But Damien didn't hear her. He never did.
Jemima stumbled backward, the floor creaking beneath her feet as her father's shadow loomed larger and larger.
"You're just like your mother," he spat, his face twisted with rage. "Weak. Worthless."
The next moment came like a blur. A sharp slap echoed through the room, and Jemima fell to the floor, her cheek burning. She lay there, trembling, as tears streamed down her face.
Damien towered over her, his chest heaving. "Get out of my sight," he muttered, turning away.
Jemima scrambled to her feet and ran—ran until she couldn't feel her legs, until the world around her was nothing but darkness and the sound of her own sobs.
The Present
Jemima gasped, her eyes flying open as she jolted upright in bed. Her breaths came in short, ragged gasps, her body shaking violently.
"Did you see it?" Jemma's voice whispered in her mind, soft but insistent.
“It was never a dream?” Jemima whispered, her hands clutching her chest.
“It wasn’t,” was the curt response from Jemma.
Jemima clutched the blanket tightly, tears streaming down her face. "Why are you doing this to me?" she choked out.
"Because you need to remember," Jemma replied, her tone unrelenting. "You need to stop pretending it didn't happen. You need to face what he did to us."
"I can't," Jemima sobbed, burying her face in her hands. "I can't do this."
"Yes, you can," Jemma insisted. "You have to. You can't hide from this anymore. You can't hide from me."
Jemima shook her head desperately, her entire body trembling. "Please... stop."
For a moment, there was silence. Then Jemma's voice softened, almost gentle. "I'm trying to help you, Jemima. You think I'm your enemy, but I'm not. I'm the only one who's ever protected you."
Jemima froze, her breath catching. "What?"
"You buried the memories, but I didn't," Jemma said quietly. "I held them for you. I carried the pain so you wouldn't have to. But I can't do it alone anymore."
Jemima's heart pounded in her chest as the words sank in. She closed her eyes, tears still streaming down her face. For the first time, she realized how tired she felt—how heavy the weight of it all had become.
"What do you want from me?" she whispered.
"Let me show you," Jemma replied softly. "Let me show you everything."
Meanwhile, at the Valerian Household, The tension in the Valerian house had reached a breaking point. Marcus stood by the kitchen table, his knuckles white as he gripped the edge. Ava sat across from him, pale and silent, while Jay leaned against the wall, his face grim.
"Say that again," Marcus said, his voice dangerously low.
Dimitri hesitated, glancing between them. "Jon Ross is dead."
The words hung in the air like a bomb waiting to explode. Marcus stared at him, disbelief and suspicion flickering in his eyes. "How?"
"They found his body late last night," Dimitri said, his tone flat. "Gunshot wound. No sign of a struggle. It was... clean."
Marcus swore under his breath, running a hand through his hair. "And Alan?"
"Missing," Dimitri replied. "No one's seen him since yesterday."
"This doesn't make sense," Ava murmured, shaking her head. "Jon Ross doesn't just die. He was always two steps ahead of everyone."
"That's what worries me," Jay said, speaking for the first time. His voice was low, but there was an edge to it. "This wasn't an accident. Someone planned this. And if Alan's missing..."
Marcus's jaw tightened. "Then whoever did this is sending a message."
"To us?" Ava asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Maybe," Jay said darkly. "Or maybe it's about something bigger."
Marcus slammed his fist onto the table, making everyone jump. "We need answers. Now."
Dimitri nodded. "I'll see what I can find. But Marcus... this could get ugly."
Marcus met his gaze, his eyes cold and unyielding. "It already is."
“While we’re all tense, I made everyone hot cocoa. This will be a long road ahead,” Vanessa muttered as she entered the living room with a tray filled with five mugs of cocoa. Everyone mumbled a thank you but her eyes remained on her fiancé, Dimitri.
They shared a knowing glance and she nodded softly.
Back at the Hospital, Jemima sat curled in the hospital bed, her arms wrapped tightly around her knees. The flashes of her past still lingered at the edges of her mind, like shadows she couldn't escape.
"Are you ready?" Jemma's voice whispered.
Jemima hesitated, her throat dry. "What are you going to show me?"
"The truth," Jemma replied simply.
Jemima closed her eyes, bracing herself. And then the world shifted again.
The Past
It was late at night. Jemima sat on the floor of her bedroom, her back pressed against the door as she hugged her knees to her chest. Her father's drunken shouts echoed faintly from downstairs, each word like a dagger to her heart.
"You're worthless!"
"You're nothing!"
Jemima squeezed her eyes shut, rocking back and forth as she tried to block out the sound. "Please stop," she whispered to herself. "Please, just stop."
And then she heard it—a voice, soft and clear, cutting through the chaos.
"You don't have to be afraid."
Jemima's eyes snapped open, her breath catching. "Who's there?"
"It's me," the voice said gently. "I'm here to protect you."
Jemima blinked, looking around the empty room. "Who are you?"
"I'm you," the voice replied. "The part of you that's strong. The part that won't let him win."
For the first time, Jemima felt something other than fear. She felt... hope.
The Present
Jemima's eyes flew open, her chest heaving. "You've been with me all along," she whispered.
"Yes," Jemma replied softly. "I've always been here."
Jemima swallowed hard, her hands trembling. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because you weren't ready to hear it," Jemma said. "But now you are. It's time to stop running, Jemima. It's time to fight."
Jemima nodded slowly, tears slipping down her cheeks. For the first time, she didn't feel alone.
"I'm ready," she whispered.
And somewhere deep inside her mind, Jemma smiled.
At the Valerian Household, Marcus's phone buzzed, breaking the tense silence. He snatched it up, his face darkening as he read the message.
"What is it?" Ava asked anxiously.
Marcus looked up, his expression grim. "It's Alan."
"What about him?" Jay demanded.
Marcus's jaw tightened. "He's not missing. He's in hiding. And he thinks we're next."
The room fell deathly silent.