Chapter 82 Anywhere
"Because she got what she wanted," I said, staring at the pink-stained paper towels in Vane’s hands. "She wanted to destroy us. If I died, she won. If Tristan died saving me... she still won."
"She didn't win," Vane said fiercely, tossing the ruined towels into the trash. "She's going to a maximum-security psychiatric prison, and she will never, ever get out. I will make it my life's mission to ensure she dies in a concrete box."
I looked at Vane. He was Tristan’s lawyer, yes. But he was also his friend.
"Thank you," I said softly.
He nodded, sitting in the chair next to mine.
"Now," Vane said, pulling out his phone. "We wait."
The waiting was a special kind of torture.
It was a slow, agonizing drip of seconds that felt like hours.
At 2:00 AM, Lonnie arrived.
He burst into the waiting room, looking frantic. He was wearing silk pajamas under a trench coat, his hair a mess.
"Mina!" he cried, running over to me.
He didn't care about the bloodstains on my clothes. He threw his arms around me, hugging me tightly.
"I saw the news," Lonnie babbled, pulling back to look at my face. "They're calling it a terrorist attack. They said there was an explosion."
"There was no explosion," Vane clarified from his chair. "Just one gunshot."
"Is he...?" Lonnie looked at me, his eyes wide with fear.
"Surgery," I said, the word a repetitive drone in my mind.
Lonnie sank into the chair on my other side. He took my clean hand in his.
"He's tough, darling," Lonnie said softly. "He's the meanest, most stubborn man I've ever met. He won't let a bullet stop him."
"He stepped in front of me," I whispered, the reality of the moment playing on a continuous loop behind my eyes. The orange flash. The heavy impact. The wet sound of his breathing.
"He saved your life," Lonnie said.
"He shouldn't have had to," I said, a fresh wave of guilt washing over me. "I was the bait. I told him I had the extinguisher. I was so arrogant."
"Stop that," Vane ordered sharply. "You didn't pull the trigger. Ida did. Silas set the trap. You were trying to end a nightmare that they started."
I knew Vane was right logically. But emotionally, I was standing on the dusty stage, watching the man I loved bleed out because of a plan I had orchestrated.
At 4:00 AM, the double doors of the waiting room opened.
A surgeon walked in.
He was wearing green scrubs, a surgical cap pulled low over his forehead. His mask was down around his neck. He looked exhausted, his shoulders slumped.
I stood up so fast my chair tipped backward, crashing to the floor.
Vane and Lonnie stood up with me.
The surgeon looked at the three of us. He focused on me, taking in the ruined clothes and the desperate, hollow look in my eyes.
"Ms. Hayes?" he asked.
"Yes," I breathed, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. "Is he...?"
The surgeon took a deep breath.
"He's out of surgery," the doctor said.
He paused.
The world stopped spinning. The humming of the vending machine vanished.
"The bullet caused significant damage," the surgeon continued, his voice steady and clinical. "It shattered the clavicle and severed the subclavian artery. He lost a massive amount of blood. We had to perform a complex vascular graft to repair the artery, and we plated the bone."
"But is he alive?" I demanded, unable to handle the medical jargon. I needed the bottom line.
The surgeon offered a small, tired smile.
"He's alive," the doctor confirmed. "He's in the ICU. He's in a medically induced coma to help his body heal from the trauma, and he’s on a ventilator. The next twenty-four hours are critical. He needs to stabilize."
My legs gave out again.
This time, Lonnie caught me, wrapping his arm around my waist to hold me up.
He was alive.
The Titan was still breathing.
"Can I see him?" I asked, looking up at the doctor through a blur of fresh tears.
"Only family," the surgeon said gently. "Hospital policy for the ICU."
"I am his family," I said, the words ringing with absolute certainty. The papers didn't matter. The divorce didn't matter.
Vane stepped forward.
"She is his proxy," Vane lied smoothly, not missing a beat. "I have the medical power of attorney documents in my office. I can have them couriered here in twenty minutes."
The surgeon looked at Vane, then at me. He saw the blood. He saw the desperation.
He sighed.
"Five minutes," the doctor said. "Room 3. Don't touch the equipment."
"Thank you," I whispered.
I didn't wait for Vane or Lonnie. I turned and practically ran out of the waiting room, following the signs for the Intensive Care Unit.
I pushed through the heavy doors.
The ICU was quiet, filled with the rhythmic beeping of monitors and the soft hiss of ventilators.
I found Room 3.
I stood in the doorway, my hand resting on the glass pane.
Tristan was lying in the center of the room.
He looked impossibly small.
Tubes and wires snaked out from under the thin hospital blanket, connecting him to a bank of machines that monitored every aspect of his life. A thick tube was taped into his mouth, breathing for him. His right shoulder was heavily bandaged, a drain tube protruding from the dressing.
He was pale, almost translucent against the white sheets.
I walked into the room slowly, terrified that any sudden movement would shatter the fragile hold he had on life.
I stopped beside the bed.
I remembered the promise I made to him in the shower. I will be perfect.
I had failed.
But he hadn't.
He had been the shield. He had taken the hit.
I carefully reached out, bypassing the IV lines taped to his left hand, and gently rested my palm against his forearm.
His skin was cool to the touch.
"I'm here," I whispered, the words catching in my throat. "I'm right here, Tristan."
He didn't move. The machine breathed for him, his chest rising and falling in a steady, artificial rhythm.
"You fought," I said, a tear escaping and splashing onto the blanket. "You fought her. You fought for me."
I leaned down, pressing my lips gently against his forehead, careful to avoid the tape securing the ventilator tube.
"Now," I murmured against his skin. "You just have to fight to come back."
I stood up, wiping my eyes.
I wasn't going to cry anymore. I wasn't going to be the victim.
Ida was in a cage. Silas was in a cage.
The monsters were locked away.
Now, it was time to rebuild.
And this time, I wasn't going to use blueprints.
I was going to use sheer, unadulterated willpower.
"I'll be right outside," I promised him. "I'm not going anywhere."