Chapter 46
Hayes's POV
The next day, I'd been at the training facility since dawn, running drills until my knee screamed and my lungs burned. Anything to stop thinking about last night. Anything to drown out the sound of her saying I hate you.
I started calling her. It was already 9 o'clock, and she still hadn't shown up. She usually came even earlier.
The phone kept ringing.
First call. No answer.
Second call. No answer.
Third call. Straight to voicemail.
I told myself she was just avoiding me. She was angry, she needed space.
But by the fourth unanswered call, something in my chest started to tighten.
"Yo, Hayes." One of the guys jogged over, tossing me a towel. "You good? You've been staring at your phone for like five minutes."
I shoved it back in my pocket. "I'm fine."
"You sure? Because you look like—"
"I said I'm fine."
He backed off, hands raised. "Alright, man. Whatever you say."
I went back to drills, but I couldn't focus. My passes were off. My footwork was sloppy. Every time I planted on my right knee, pain shot up my leg, but I didn't stop.
By 10 o'clock, I couldn't take it anymore.
I grabbed my bag and headed for the exit, ignoring the confused looks from the coaching staff.
She's probably just sleeping in, I told myself as I walked to the apartment.
But the knot in my stomach said otherwise.
I started walking, then broke into a run.
She's fine.
I took the elevator up, my heart pounding harder with every floor.
I called again.
When I got to her door, I knocked.
No answer.
I knocked again, harder this time. "Sienna?"
Nothing.
I pressed my ear to the door, listening. I could hear something—faint, muffled. A phone buzzing. But no footsteps. No voice.
"Sienna, open the door."
Still nothing.
And then I heard it.
A soft thud. Like something falling.
My blood went cold.
I didn't think. I just pulled out my phone and called building management, my voice sharp and urgent. "I need you to open 1203. Right now. Emergency."
"Sir, we can't just—"
"I don't care what your policy is. Open the goddamn door."
There was a pause. Then, reluctantly, "We'll send someone up."
I hung up and paced the hallway, every second feeling like an eternity.
When the manager finally arrived with a key card, I didn't wait for him to finish unlocking it. I shoved the door open and stepped inside.
The apartment was dark. Curtains half-drawn. The air felt stifling, thick with heat.
And there, on the floor beside the couch, near a shattered glass, was Sienna.
Curled up. Pale. Unmoving.
I was across the room in three strides, dropping to my knees beside her. My hands shook as I reached for her face, tilting it toward me.
Her skin was burning.
"Sienna." My voice cracked. "Sienna, wake up."
She didn't respond.
I pressed two fingers to her neck, feeling for a pulse. It was there—fast, erratic, but there.
Relief and terror hit me at the same time.
I scooped her up, cradling her against my chest. She was so light it scared me. Too light. Like she'd been running on nothing for too long.
Her phone was on the floor, screen lit up with missed calls.
All from me.
I carried her out of the apartment, not bothering to lock the door behind me. The manager stammered something, but I didn't hear it. I just kept moving, my arms locked around her like I was afraid she'd disappear if I let go.
In the elevator, I looked down at her face. Her lips were cracked. Her hair was damp with sweat. And I realized, with a sick, sinking feeling, that this was my fault.
Last night, I'd pushed her. I'd cornered her. I'd kissed her like I had the right to, like I could force her to feel something just because I couldn't let go.
And now she was here, unconscious in my arms, because I'd been too angry and too selfish to see that she was falling apart.
"I'm sorry," I whispered, my voice breaking.
She didn't hear me.
But I said it anyway.
---
I slammed the car door shut and peeled out of the parking garage, one hand on the wheel, the other keeping Sienna steady in the passenger seat. Her head lolled against the window, and I reached over to adjust her, pulling her toward me so she wouldn't hit the glass.
Her skin was still burning under my palm.
Every red light felt like torture. I kept glancing over, checking if her chest was still rising and falling, if her eyelids were flickering, if there was any sign she was waking up.
Nothing.
Just that shallow, uneven breathing that made my own lungs feel tight.
How long has she been like this? The question clawed at my brain. How long was she lying there alone while I was at the facility, ignoring everything except my own bullshit?
I pressed harder on the gas.
The hospital emergency entrance came into view, and I didn't bother finding a parking spot. I just stopped the car right at the door, threw it into park, and lifted Sienna out of the passenger seat.
A nurse at the intake desk looked up, startled. "Sir, you can't—"
"She's unconscious. High fever. Get someone. Now."
The urgency in my voice must have registered because she didn't argue. She grabbed a wheelchair, but I shook my head. "I've got her."
They led me to a triage room, and I laid Sienna down on the examination bed, stepping back only when a doctor pushed past me to start checking her vitals.
"How long has she been unresponsive?" the doctor asked, shining a penlight in her eyes.
"I don't know. I found her maybe twenty minutes ago."
"Any medical history? Allergies?"
"Severe wrist tendonitis. Right wrist."
The doctor glanced at me, then back at Sienna. "You're family?"
I hesitated for half a second. "Yes."
He nodded and turned back to his work, rattling off instructions to the nurses. They hooked her up to an IV, took her temperature, checked her blood pressure.
"102.4 degrees Fahrenheit," one of them said. "BP is elevated. Heart rate 110."
The doctor frowned, examining her hands. "Severe inflammation in the right wrist. Dehydration. Signs of chronic fatigue and stress." He looked at me, his expression somewhere between professional concern and disapproval. "Has she been taking care of herself at all? This level of exhaustion doesn't happen overnight."
I clenched my jaw, guilt twisting like a knife in my gut. "She works too much."
"Clearly." He made a note on his clipboard. "We'll get her fluids going, run some tests, and monitor her overnight. Viral infection, most likely, compounded by severe immune suppression from overwork and stress."
He paused, his eyes narrowing. "You're her family. Have you been paying attention to her condition? Because this is the kind of thing that could've been prevented if someone had—"
"I know," I cut him off, my voice hoarse.
The doctor studied me for a moment, then sighed. "She needs rest. Real rest. Not just a few hours between shifts. And that wrist needs to be immobilized before she does permanent damage."
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.
They moved her to a private room after stabilizing her vitals, and I followed, refusing to leave even when the nurses suggested I wait outside.
I sat in the chair beside her bed and just... watched.