Chapter 71 071
EMILY
I burst through the hospital doors like the building itself was on fire and my whole world was trapped inside.
My sneakers squeaked against the polished floor, a sharp, frantic echo that matched the thunder of my heartbeat in my ears.
People blurred past me—nurses in scrubs, families clutching coffee cups, someone muttering into a phone—but I didn’t see any of them. All I could see was the reception desk ahead, a bright, sterile island in the middle of my nightmare.
A nurse stepped in front of me before I could reach it. Her hands landed on my shoulders, firm but kind, holding me in place like she’d done this a hundred times before.
“Miss, you need to calm down,” she said, voice steady. “Breathe. Tell me what’s happening.”
I tried. God, I tried. My mouth opened, but the words came out in a broken stammer.
“P-please… my husband… Ryan Thompson… he’s here… please…”
Her expression softened. She nodded once, quick and professional, then gestured for me to follow her to a chair by the side of the desk.
“Okay. Okay. I’ve got you. One minute, alright?” She disappeared behind the counter.
I stood there, chest heaving, fingers digging into my arms so hard I knew I’d leave marks. The antiseptic smell burned my nose. Somewhere down the corridor a monitor beeped in a steady rhythm that felt like a countdown I couldn’t stop. Every second stretched longer than it should, each tick of the clock a cruel reminder that I couldn’t reach him yet.
When the nurse returned, she had another woman in blue scrubs with her.
“Are you Emily?”
I nodded so fast my vision blurred. “Yes—yes, I’m Emily.”
“Come with me,” the first nurse said.
She led me through a set of double doors, down a corridor that smelled stronger of antiseptic and fear than any place I had ever known. My legs felt heavy, like they didn’t belong to me. I kept stumbling, catching myself on the wall, but she didn’t rush me. She stayed close, one hand hovering near my elbow as though ready to catch me if I fell.
We stopped outside a room with a glass window. Through it, I saw the chaos inside.
Ryan.
He lay on the table, surrounded by doctors and machines. Wires snaked across his chest, tubes disappearing under the thin hospital gown they’d cut him into. His face was pale, too pale, with dark streaks of blood across his temple and collar.
One doctor pressed on his side, another adjusted an IV line. The beeps of monitors and hushed commands filled the room like a terrible, relentless soundtrack.
I lunged forward without thinking. My legs moved before my brain caught up, adrenaline pushing me toward the glass like it could somehow protect him.
The nurse caught my arm, firm but gentle. “He’s in surgery at the moment. It’s not safe to go any closer right now. You can watch through the window, but that’s all. You have to stay here.”
I barely registered her words. Both palms pressed to the cool glass, fogging it with my breath. My eyes locked on him. Every line of his body, every pale feature, every tube and wire—my heart hammered so loudly it was almost deafening.
“Ryan…”
The word slipped out, small and broken, barely more than a whisper. I repeated it over and over, as if saying his name enough times could bring him back, make him open his eyes, make him reach for me.
I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry.
My knees gave out. I slid down the wall until I was sitting on the cold, hard floor. My forehead pressed to my knees, my body shaking. The antiseptic smell burned my nose, the monitor’s beeps felt like drumbeats counting down, and the echo of my guilt drowned everything else.
The nurse crouched beside me, her presence steady. “He’s stable right now. The doctors are doing everything they can. You’re not alone in this.”
I shook my head, tears soaking the fabric of my jeans. “I… I wished him the worst day,” I choked out. “I was so angry, and I… I wished it. What if this is my fault?”
She rubbed my back slowly, carefully, like she was trying to stitch together the parts of me that were breaking. “This isn’t your fault. Accidents happen. You’re here now. That’s what matters.”
But I wasn’t listening. My guilt roared louder than her words. I whispered to myself over and over, rocking slightly. “I’m sorry… I’m sorry…”
Then a voice cut through everything, sharp and piercing, slicing through my panic.
“Look what you’ve done to my son again.”
I lifted my head slowly. Cecilia stood a few feet away, coat draped over one arm, posture perfect and controlled even in the middle of chaos. Her eyes glimmered coldly, satisfaction hidden in the curve of her smile.
I pushed myself up on shaky legs, clutching the wall for support. My hands shook, but my voice steadied enough to slice through the tension. “Cecilia.”
She took a step closer, eyes never leaving me. “Is it never enough? Why not have mercy on his poor mother?”
Her words landed like a slap, sharp and deliberate. My chest tightened. I opened my mouth to defend myself, to scream that I loved him, to tell her to leave—but before a single word could escape, a small, hesitant voice came from behind her.
“I’m… s-sorry, I had to use the bathroom, ma…”
Miranda stepped into view, small and nervous, her shoulders hunched slightly as though she could disappear if she tried hard enough. Her hands twisted together at her front, fingers entwined so tightly her knuckles whitened. Her eyes darted between me and Cecilia, a silent apology on her face, like she wished the floor would open and swallow her whole.
I turned sharply toward Cecilia, incredulous, disbelief flaring hotter than anything I’d felt in that moment. “What the hell is she doing here?”
Cecilia’s smirk widened, slow and satisfied, a predator’s expression. “I told her to come.”