Chapter 105
Chapter 105
Quinton was ready to fall on his knees and beg if that’s what it took to win Neema back. That was all his mind could think of as he cut through traffic, like the hounds of hell were after him. Several vehicles honked at him, and some drivers stuck their heads out of their windows to curse at him, not that he cared.
His phone rang just as Quinton was cutting in front of a slow delivery truck, irritation simmering in his chest. He almost ignored it. Almost. His focus centered on getting to Neema and sorting out their mess. He didn't have time for distractions. But one glance at the caller ID made his grip tighten on the steering wheel, and his mind came to a halt.
Hasani Madaki. Neema's father was calling him. Quinton had almost forgotten that he’d given the older man his number when they met. The man had never called or messaged him, so why now? A cold thread of dread slid down Quinton’s spine. He answered immediately. “Mr. Madaki?”
The voice on the other end was raw, frayed, like it had been scraped thin by panic. “Quinton. Where were you? They called me… From the hospital. Neema’s been in an accident.”
He spoke fast. The words fell over each other, making it difficult to understand, but when he did, the world narrowed to a single point.
His heart began to thunder behind his rib cage. “What do you mean by accident? What accident? Where?” Quinton asked, though some instinct already knew this wasn’t a scraped knee or a broken wrist. For just a moment, the sound of his own blood rushing through his ears got too loud. So loud he couldn’t hear anything, and he had to take a deep breath and remind himself that he wouldn’t be of any help if he panicked.
Hasani exhaled sharply as though he felt pain just relaying the information. “They said someone hit her cab. Deliberately. Then they tried to kill her.”
No!
Quinton swerved without realizing it, the car jerking as a horn blared nearby. He blinked and quickly got back in his lane, narrowly missing the rear of an SUV.
“I’m on my way,” he said, voice ironed flat by force. “Which hospital?”
“Central Trauma,” Hasani replied. “They didn’t tell me much yet. Just that she’s alive.” His voice cracked on the last word, and suddenly Quinton could picture the man, tall, always with a smile, always calm, reduced to panic, hands shaking, trying not to fall apart.
Quinton spun the wheel hard, cutting across lanes, ignoring the angry shouts behind him as he made a reckless U-turn. Alive wasn’t enough. Alive was not a promise she was okay. He would make whoever was behind this pay. But he knew there could only be one person behind this.
“I swear to you,” Quinton said, teeth clenched as he pressed the accelerator harder, “Jerome will pay for this. I will-”
“Don’t,” Hasani cut in sharply. “I don’t care about Jerome right now, or anybody else. I don’t care who did it. I just want my daughter to be okay.”
The words landed heavy, grounding and shaming all at once. Quinton swallowed. “You’re right,” he said more quietly. “I’m sorry. She’ll be okay. She has to be.”
Hasani was silent for a moment, then spoke again, his voice lower. “My wife, Noelle, is still at work. I don’t want to call her until I know more. She’ll panic.” A pause. “Can you… Can you get to me? I don’t trust myself to drive. I haven’t done it in years since I got sick.”
“Yes,” Quinton said immediately. “I’ll send a car. One of my drivers will be there in half an hour at the latest. I promise.”
“Thank you,” Hasani murmured. “Please. Just… Let me know when you see her.”
“I will,” Quinton promised. “I won’t leave her side.”
He ended the call and immediately called his security to send a driver, all the while cursing himself as he realized none of this would have happened if he’d kept security details on Neema even when she stormed out of his house. He’d tried to, but she’d seen them and demanded they leave. Quinton wished he’d put his foot down and kept them on her.
For good measure, he called Isaiah as well and gave him the highlights before he tossed the phone onto the passenger seat, his chest tight, lungs burning as if he’d forgotten how to breathe properly. The city blurred past him, streetlights streaking, buildings melting into shadows, but all he could see in his mind’s eye was Neema.
Neema, laughing in his kitchen, flour smudged on her cheek.
Neema, curled into him in bed, warm and real and stubborn.
Neema, walking away from him, saying she needed space.
A sharp, vicious thought tore through him: What if that was the last time she walked away under her own power?
“No,” he muttered, gripping the wheel harder. He shook his head vehemently. “No. Not like this.”
The smell of burnt rubber filled the car, his heart hammering so violently it made his vision pulse. He was beyond desperate to get to her. He pushed the car even harder, not caring if the cops chased after him.
He couldn’t think as guilt showed its ugly head with one bitter truth: this was his fault.
The realization settled ugly and heavy in his gut. He had let his temper rule him. He had gone after Jerome with his fists instead of the law. He had scared Neema, scared her enough to leave. And while he was licking his wounded pride, someone else had put her in a hospital bed.
“If anything happens to you,” he whispered into the empty car, voice breaking despite himself, “I won’t survive it.”
A few minutes later, the hospital finally loomed into view, white and harsh under fluorescent lights, sirens wailing somewhere ahead. Quinton barely slowed as he pulled into the nearest parking slot closest to the emergency entrance, tires screeching as he parked crookedly and jumped out.
As soon as he was out, it hit him. The air smelled like antiseptic and rain. Like fear.
He didn’t remember slamming the door. Didn’t remember locking the car. He only knew he was running, shoes pounding against concrete, heart in his throat as he pushed through the sliding doors.
“Please,” he prayed. He wasn’t sure to whom. Quinton just hoped someone was listening. “Please let her be okay.”
Because whatever came next, police, courts, consequences, meant nothing if Neema wasn’t still there to fight for.