Nadine

Nadine
Nadine
I stare at my phone, feeling like only a fraction of a minute has passed. Why is he calling back?
My heart tightens in my chest as a flood of terrible possibilities rushes through my mind. Something must be wrong.
But how will I know if I don’t answer?
With trembling hands, I pick up my phone, swipe the screen, and press it to my ear. My nerves are all over the place.
"Hello," I say softly.
"Hello, am I speaking to the wife of the owner of this phone?"
I freeze for a moment, then suddenly stand up from my seat. My heart races as the worst-case scenarios flood my mind.
Why does someone else have Logan’s phone? What happened to him?
"Are you there?" The voice on the other end snaps me out of my daze.
"Y-yes, I’m here," I manage to say, my voice unsteady.
"Are you his wife?"
The word wife feels strange in my ears. For a second, I wonder if they have the wrong person. But this is Logan’s number.
"Yes," I finally replied, realizing that the person wouldn’t say anything unless I confirmed it.
"Okay, you need to come to the hospital immediately. Your husband’s car was hit by a drunk driver. He’s been rushed there."
It feels like my blood shoots straight to my chest, making my heart pound in a way I’ve never experienced before.
"Which hospital?" I whisper after a long silence, my throat tight.
The person on the line curses under their breath before telling me the name. I grab the nearest piece of paper and hurriedly scribble it down.
"Thank you," I mutter before hanging up, my hands shaking.
Logan is in the hospital. Oh my God, I caused this—I pushed him so far that he had to leave, and now he's been hit by a drunk driver.
I run a hand through my hair, gripping it in frustration. The thought that I had a part in this is unbearable. What do I do now?
I glance down at myself—I’m not even dressed properly. Without thinking, I rush to my room at lightning speed, my nerves all over the place.
My hands tremble as I throw on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, my mind racing. Should I call his family first? Or should I just get to the hospital? No, I don’t have time. I need to go now.
I barely register what I’m doing as I sprint outside, yank open my car door, and jump in. My hands shake as I fumble with the ignition.
But when I turn the key—nothing. The car won’t start.
I press my forehead against the steering wheel, trying to steady my breathing.
Okay, let’s try again.
I turn the key once more, and this time, the engine roars to life. I let out a relieved breath before speeding out of the compound.
As I drive, a voice creeps into my mind. Why are you even bothering me? I thought you wanted nothing to do with him.
"Shut the fuck up," I snap out loud. Thankfully, no one is around to hear me or they’d think I’ve lost my mind.
But the thoughts didn’t stop. You pushed him until he snapped. You made him reckless. You made him blind to the drunk driver. Happy now?
My grip tightens on the wheel as I reach a red traffic light. My chest feels heavy because, in a way, the voice isn’t wrong.
But damn it Logan has been trying to change. What else did I want? And now, the moment I hear he’s in an accident, I drop everything to get to him.
Please, God, let him be okay.
The light turns green, and I speed forward. The drive feels endless, but after what seems like ten minutes, I finally see the hospital in the distance. A flash of hope sparks I’m close.
I pull into the parking lot, finding a spot quickly. The moment I shifted the gear into the park, I didn't even wait. I throw open the car door and bolt for the entrance.
Just as I reach the entrance, I stop for a moment, trying to catch my breath. It feels like the air has been knocked out of me. My heart is pounding so hard it echoes in my ears.
I push forward, making my way to the front desk.
"Hi, I’m looking for my husband. He was brought here after an accident," I say in one rushed breath.
As soon as the word husband leaves my mouth, I mentally berate myself. It feels strange saying it, but now isn’t the time to dwell on that.
"Oh, let me check," the receptionist says, typing on her computer.
She looks up at me. "Can you please tell me your husband’s name?"
"He’s Logan West."
The moment I say his name, she freezes, staring at me for a moment too long. She didn’t move, not type—just stared.
"What?" I snap, snapping her out of her daze.
Of course. She must be one of his fans. They always recognize him.
"Oh, Logan West. Let me check… Yes, he’s in room 304."
"How is he? Is he okay? Will he be fine? Was it serious?" I fire off my questions, my voice rising with panic.
"Mrs. West, please calm down," she says gently. "The doctor will update you shortly on his condition. In the meantime, please take a seat. I’ll let the doctor know you’re here." She gestures to a nearby chair.
I turn and see the seat, my body suddenly feeling the weight of exhaustion. I sink into it, my fingers gripping my knees as I try to stay calm.
But the wait feels endless. My foot taps against the floor—one of the many things I do when I’m nervous.
I watch as people come and go, doctors rushing in and out, patients being wheeled through the halls. The sterile smell of disinfectant fills my nose.
Hospitals. One of my least favorite places.
Then I see a man walking toward the receptionist, speaking to her in a low voice as she nods and listens.
This could be the doctor.
My heart leaps into my throat as I hurriedly get to my feet and move toward him.
"Please, how is my husband?" I ask, my breath shaky.
He furrows his brow slightly, glancing at me before turning to the receptionist.
She quickly explains the situation, sparing me from having to repeat myself—I’m too drained to find the right words anyway.
"Oh, okay," he says, nodding. Then he turns to me, but the look on his face makes my stomach drop.
Whatever he’s about to say isn’t good.
He tries to mask it, keeping his expression neutral, but I can see it. I can feel it.