Third Person's POV.
Two days after the definitive luncheon with Uncle Phillip, just as Percy was deep in the complex process of finalizing Aethel Designs' crucial supply chain shift, the shrill ring of his phone cut through the quiet focus of his office. Seeing his father's name flash on the screen immediately put him on edge.
"Percy, son, you need to come to the mansion immediately," Robert said, skipping any gentle preamble. His voice was taut, stretched thin with worry.
"Dad, I'm literally in the middle of a major project," Percy replied, his tone instinctively snapping into defensiveness. "Is this another family intervention? Because I told Uncle Phillip that if Mother tries anything else—"
"This isn't an intervention, Percy. It's your mother," Robert cut in sharply, his voice gaining an edge that commanded attention. "She collapsed a while ago. The doctor is here now. She's still unconscious, and frankly, I don't know if this is real or not, but Dr. Alistair is taking it seriously."
The casual defiance immediately evaporated, leaving behind a cold, sick dread. A corporate threat was one thing; an unconscious parent was entirely another. Percy didn't ask another question. He didn't have enough time to shoot a text to Gemini. He simply grabbed his keys, the heavy coil feeling suddenly light, and rushed out the door.
When Percy arrived at the imposing Moore mansion, the usual grand silence was replaced by a chaotic yet subdued tension. A worn doctor's bag lay unceremoniously near the front hall table, a stark sign of immediate crisis. Robert met him in the living room, his face a desolate mask of gray fatigue.
"Dad! What happened?" Percy demanded, the sick knot in his stomach twisting tighter.
"She hasn't been right since the interview and that confrontation," Robert explained, running a tired, shaky hand over his face. "She's been withdrawn, arguing with the staff over small, insignificant things. This morning, she was getting ready for work, and she just... collapsed in the bathroom. Dr. Alistair says her blood pressure is dangerously high, coupled with extreme stress and exhaustion. He can't rule out a cardiac event without further testing, but he believes the collapse itself has been a long time coming."
He thought she was invincible.
Percy's internal defenses crumbled. He had threatened to legally disown her. Uncle Phillip had shut down her entire sabotage campaign. The Nexus win had been a public humiliation. He knew she was enraged, but he had never once considered that he was pushing her past a physical breaking point. He had treated her like an opposing titan, not a human being. If this is real... if he'd actually hurt her, damaged her health because of this ridiculous, petty corporate warfare...
A wave of crushing, acidic guilt washed over him. He immediately turned and rushed toward the master suite upstairs.
Genevieve Sinclair Moore was lying in the bed, looking unnaturally small and pale against the luxurious cream pillows. Dr. Alistair was zipping up his bag near the bedside table.
"Perseus," the doctor greeted him quietly, his tone professional but grave. "Your mother is stabilizing. I've given her a mild sedative. I strongly advise minimizing all sources of stress immediately. Her heart simply can't handle the strain she's been putting on it."
As the doctor left, Percy walked slowly toward the bed, looking down at the woman who had always been a force of nature. Her eyes fluttered open slowly. They looked glassy and held a deep, profound sadness that Percy realized he had never seen before—only exhaustion, not manipulation.
"Percy," she whispered, her voice weak and reedy, completely devoid of its usual authority.
He knelt beside the bed, genuine, raw concern overriding his usual defenses. "Mother, are you alright? You shouldn't be speaking. Doctor Alistair said you need rest."
A single tear tracked down her temple and into the hairline. "I'm just so tired, Percy."
She reached out a hand—a small, fragile gesture—and this time, Percy took it, his heart heavy and hammering against his ribs.
"I'm sorry, darling," she confessed, her voice barely a breath, sounding genuinely remorseful. "I know I shouldn't have gone after your company. And I shouldn't have said those things about you on television. I was angry because you left. I was afraid I'd lost you completely."
She looked at him with what appeared to be genuine sorrow, but her next words tightened the screws of guilt perfectly. "You threatened to change your name and leave the family, Percy. Leave me. You know that's the ultimate betrayal. I felt like I had nothing left to lose."
She's being a little dramatic, he thought distantly. She still had Penelope and his father. But then again, her confession tactics were perfect: she had admitted to the wrongdoing while immediately reinforcing the emotional leverage. Her collapsing had been a real, medical event, induced by extreme stress, but the timing and the fragility of the emotional performance were undoubtedly deliberate. This was Genevieve Sinclair Moore's final, desperate attempt to win him back through guilt and profound maternal distress.
"Stay, Percy," she pleaded softly, her grip tightening fractionally on his hand. "Just stay here for a while. I need to know you haven't completely cut me out."
Percy looked from his mother's pale, fragile face to his father's stressed, pleading presence, and then back to the crushing guilt currently tearing him apart. He knew the war had to stop. The thought of his actions causing this kind of physical breakdown was unbearable. He wasn't sure if he could trust the sincerity of this fragile moment, but he knew he couldn't walk away now.
"Alright. I won't leave, Mother," Percy said quietly, squeezing her hand, knowing with a certainty that chilled him that he had just paused the war, but terrified of the price of the ceasefire. "I'll stay until you're stable."