Chapter 108

Chapter 108
The world exploded into noise.

“Oh my God, Quinton!” Neema tried to sit up, a sharp, tearing pain ripping through her ribs as panic detonated in her chest. The sudden movement made stars burst behind her eyes, but she barely noticed. “Help! Somebody help him!”

The smell of antiseptic seemed to thicken, clogging her throat as her gaze locked onto Quinton’s body on the floor. One moment, he had been standing, angry, alive, terrifyingly solid, and the next, he was down, unmoving, his long frame crumpled in a way that looked wrong.

The detective reacted instantly, the professional calm evaporating. He dropped to one knee beside Quinton, fingers already at his neck.

“Call it in,” he barked toward the open doorway. “We need medical assistance now!”

Neema barely heard him. Her hands were shaking so badly she couldn’t tell if they were obeying her or not as she reached for Quinton. Her fingers brushed his shoulder through the thin fabric of his shirt.

Cold. Not ice-cold, but wrong-cold. Damp. Clammy. A broken sound tore from her chest. “Quinton,” she sobbed. “Hey. Look at me. Please.”

Her heart slammed so hard it felt like it might crack her ribs from the inside. The room tilted, her vision tunneling until there was nothing but him. Strong, impossible Quinton, who filled doorways, who bent the world to his will, was lying still because of her. Because of everything that had happened. Because of the stress she had brought into his life, it was like a storm that never stopped raining.

This is my fault. The thought latched on and refused to let go.

Footsteps thundered down the hallway. Shoes squeaked against linoleum. Voices collided in sharp, clipped commands.

A nurse burst in first, followed by another, then a doctor in a white coat that flared as he moved. The room filled with bodies and motion and urgency.

“Ma’am, please lie back,” one of the nurses said, her voice firm but kind as she pressed a steady hand to Neema’s shoulder.

Neema tried to resist, panic lending her a weak, frantic strength. “No,” she cried. “Don’t touch him like that. What’s wrong with him? What’s happening to him?”

“We’ve got him,” the doctor said calmly, already working, already focused. He knelt beside Quinton, checking his pulse, shining a light briefly into his eyes. “Sir? Can you hear me?”

Neema’s breath came in short, jagged bursts. The heart monitor was suddenly there, its beeping too loud, too fast, then uneven. An oxygen mask appeared, lowered over Quinton’s face like something out of a nightmare.

Her chest ached, not from broken bones or bruises, but from pure, blinding terror. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. He was supposed to be the strong one. The steady one. The man who took care of her, who stood between her and the chaos of the world. Not the one collapsing at her bedside because he cared too much.

Please, she begged silently, her thoughts spiraling, tripping over themselves. Please don’t let this be how I lose you.

They lifted him with practiced efficiency, transferring him onto a stretcher. The sight of his body being moved away from her, away from the place where she could reach him, made something inside her crack open.

As they wheeled him toward the door, his hand twitched. Just a small movement. Barely anything.

But Neema saw it. “Quinton!” she gasped.

She reached out instinctively, fingers stretching as far as they could go, catching his hand for just a second. His skin was still cool. Still real.

“I’m here,” she whispered, tears spilling freely now, blurring everything. “Please be okay. Please.”

Then he was gone.

The door swung shut behind the stretcher, cutting off the noise, the urgency, the last physical proof that he had been there at all. The sudden quiet was suffocating.

Neema collapsed back against the pillows, shaking violently. Her mind ran panicked laps, frantic and useless, like a chicken on fire. Every worst-case thought slammed into the next, leaving her breathless and hollow.

Minutes crawled by. Or maybe it was seconds. Time lost all meaning.

By the time half an hour had passed, Neema was sitting upright in the bed again, knees drawn slightly despite the protest from her ribs, hands clenched together in her lap. The IV line tugged painfully at her skin, but she didn’t care.

No one had told her anything. Not a word.

Her eyes burned, and when the first tear escaped, it felt like permission for everything else to fall apart. She pressed her lips together, trying and failing to hold it in.

The door burst open again. This time it was Vanessa and Isaiah.

Vanessa rushed in first, heels clicking sharply against the floor, her dark eyes scanning the room until they landed on Neema. Isaiah followed close behind, his expression grim, alert, already assessing.

“Oh, Neema,” Vanessa said, crossing the room in long strides. “Talk to us.”

The dam broke.

Neema started talking all at once, words tumbling over each other in a messy rush. “He was fine… Angry, but fine… And then he just went pale, and he fell, and they took him, and I don’t know where they took him, and they haven’t told me anything and-”

Isaiah raised a calming hand. “Okay. Okay. Breathe.” He glanced at Vanessa. “I’ll find out what’s going on.”

He left as quickly as he’d come, already pulling out his phone.

Vanessa stayed.

Neema wiped at her face with trembling fingers, embarrassed by the way her body refused to cooperate. She looked up at Vanessa then, and froze. That’s when she realized. 

Vanessa didn’t look panicked.

Concerned, yes. Focused. But not shattered. Not afraid in the way Neema felt like she was coming apart at the seams.

That confused her more than anything else.

“Aren’t you…” Neema’s voice broke. She swallowed. “Aren’t you worried?”

Vanessa sat on the edge of the bed carefully, her presence steady and grounding. “I am,” she said honestly. “But not the way you think.”

Neema frowned through her tears.

“Quinton has vasovagal syncope,” Vanessa explained gently. “He’s had it since he was a teenager.”

Neema blinked. “He… what?”

“It’s basically a fancy way of saying his body overreacts when he’s extremely stressed or emotional,” Vanessa said. “His blood pressure drops. His heart rate drops. And sometimes, he faints. Hard.”

Neema stared at her, trying to process the words. “You mean… Has this happened before?”

“More times than he’d ever admit. The last time was when he took a few days off work, and you took him some soup,” Vanessa said with a small, wry smile. “And given everything he’s been dealing with lately? I’m honestly not surprised.”

Relief and guilt crashed into Neema at the same time, leaving her dizzy. Neema remembered that time. It was when she’d been trying to seduce Quinton and hadn’t known what illness he had when he didn’t come into work. Now it made sense.

“So he’s… Okay?” she asked hesitantly.

Vanessa nodded. “I’d bet money he’s already awake and complaining. They’ll keep him for observation, monitor his vitals, and make sure everything stabilizes. But he’s going to be fine.”

Neema sagged slightly, a sob slipping out of her chest despite herself.

“I did this,” she whispered. “I bring chaos everywhere I go. I stress him out. I almost died and then he almost…”

Vanessa reached out and took her hand, squeezing gently. “Stop that.”

Neema looked up.

“Quinton was stressed long before you,” Vanessa said firmly. “You didn’t create that. If anything, you’ve made him better. Calmer. Happier.”

Neema shook her head weakly. “It doesn’t feel like it.”

“It is,” Vanessa insisted. “I’ve known my brother his whole life. I’ve never seen him fight this hard for anyone. And I’ve never seen him care this deeply.”

Neema closed her eyes, letting the words sink in. For the first time since Quinton had collapsed, her breathing began to slow.

She still hurt. She was still terrified. But beneath it all, a fragile thread of hope began to wind its way through the fear.

He wasn’t gone.

And maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t destroying him by loving him.