Harold.
Lucian comes by the room again just after the nurses finish evening vitals, tablet gone this time, hands empty, which for him counts as a man arriving with something to say.
"We need a story," he says, pulling the chair closer to the bed. "For the staff at the villa. For the family. She can't move in as—" he stops himself, chooses the next word with more care than I expect— "as nothing. There has to be a reason that doesn't invite questions."
"Family medical support," I offer. "You're overseeing my recovery. She's my next of kin. It's practical."
"It's thin." He says it flatly, no cruelty in it, just fact. "Julian's mother will ask why the surgeon needs the patient's daughter living under his own roof instead of visiting during hours like every other family member in this city
