The Sickened Luna's Last Chance novel Chapter 437

**TITLE: The Perfect 437**
**Chapter 437**

**Ella’s POV**

As the first rays of dawn crept through the nursery curtains, I stirred awake, the gentle light wrapping around me like a soft blanket. My neck throbbed, a dull ache from the awkward position I had taken while dozing beside Lucien’s crib. My arms felt stiff, a testament to the long hours spent in this precarious vigil. Nevertheless, I pushed myself upright, my heart racing with a mixture of hope and anxiety as I leaned over to check on my precious boy.

There he lay, still fragile, but I noted a subtle improvement. His cheeks, though still pale, bore a hint of color, a soft blush that had been absent the day before. The swelling in his face had diminished ever so slightly, and his breathing appeared less labored, more rhythmic. I reached out, my fingers brushing against his forehead, and found his skin warm, yet not feverish.

A wave of relief flooded through me. He was stable.

Yet, as if to counterbalance my fleeting joy, a sharp cramp twisted in my stomach, a harsh reminder that I had neglected my own needs for far too long. I couldn’t recall the last time I had indulged in a proper meal—was it over a day ago? The thought of leaving Lucien alone sent a pang of guilt through me, but I knew I had to nourish myself if I wanted to be of any use to him.

With careful movements, I stood, leaning over the crib to plant a soft, lingering kiss on his forehead. “I’ll be right back, my sweet boy,” I whispered, my voice barely above a breath. “Mama just needs to eat something.”

Lucien remained undisturbed, lost in his peaceful slumber.

I snatched the crystal from the dresser, unwilling to leave it unattended, and made my way downstairs. The house was eerily quiet, the kind of silence that felt heavy in the air. A few guards stood at their posts, their expressions respectful as I walked past, but the emptiness of the place was palpable, echoing the turmoil in my heart.

Upon entering the kitchen, I found Alexander slumped at the table, a cold cup of coffee sitting neglected before him. His posture spoke volumes; his elbows rested heavily on the table, his head buried in his hands. When he finally lifted his gaze to meet mine, I was struck by the toll that sleeplessness had taken on him. Dark circles framed his eyes, his hair was unkempt, and his clothes hung on him like a forgotten afterthought, wrinkled and stained.

He looked as though he had been haunted by his thoughts all night.

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