Chapter 83 Hospital
The waiting room in the ICU became my entire universe.
The walls were painted a sterile, anemic green. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed with a low, constant frequency that burrowed into my skull and stayed there. The clock on the wall, with its slow, sweeping red second hand, was a constant reminder of how slowly time moved when you were waiting for someone to wake up.
Or slip away.
I didn't leave that room. Vane arranged for someone to go to my apartment and bring me clean clothes. He ordered food that I didn't eat. Lonnie sat with me for hours, holding my hand and talking quietly about meaningless things—fabric swatches, gossip from the design firm—just to fill the silence.
But the silence was always waiting at the edges, ready to rush back in.
It was Friday night, roughly thirty-six hours since the shooting at the Opera House.
I was sitting in one of the stiff, vinyl chairs, my knees pulled up to my chest. I had washed the blood off my hands in the small bathroom down the hall, scrubbing my skin until it was red and raw, but I could still feel it. I could still smell the metallic tang of it.
"Mina."
I looked up. Vane was standing in the doorway. He looked exhausted, the dark circles under his eyes rivaling my own.
"Any news?" I asked, my voice a raspy croak.
"I just spoke to the lead surgeon," Vane said, stepping into the room. "The internal bleeding has stopped. The grafts are holding. They've started lowering the dosage of the paralytics."
I sat up straight, my heart giving a painful lurch against my ribs.
"Does that mean they're going to wake him up?"
"It means they're going to see if he can wake up," Vane corrected gently, sitting in the chair across from me. "He suffered massive trauma, Mina. His body went through shock. It's a delicate process."
"But he's stronger," I insisted. "He fought off the infection. He's stable."
"He is," Vane agreed. "But we have to be prepared for the fact that recovery is going to be long. And painful."
"I don't care about the pain," I said fiercely. "I just want him back."
Vane looked at me, a soft, sad smile touching his lips.
"He's a lucky man, you know," Vane murmured. "To have someone wait for him like this."
I shook my head, staring down at my hands.
"I'm not waiting for him," I said softly. "I'm just... existing until he gets here. Because without him, Vane... I don't know what I'm supposed to do."
The realization had hit me sometime around 3:00 AM the night before.
I had spent five years building a life without Tristan Johnston. I had built a successful career in Milan. I had learned to sleep alone. I had forged an armor so thick I thought nothing could ever break it.
And then, he had stepped in front of a bullet for me.
In that fraction of a second, the armor had shattered. The career, the independence, the carefully constructed walls—it all meant absolutely nothing if he wasn't there to share it with.
Ida had wanted to destroy us.
Instead, she had forced me to see the truth.
I couldn't live without him. Not anymore. The hate had burned out. The anger had faded. The fear of being controlled was nothing compared to the terror of living in a world where Tristan didn't exist.
"You love him," Vane stated quietly.
"More than I thought was possible," I admitted, the tears pricking my eyes again. "And I was so busy fighting him... so busy trying to prove I didn't need him... that I almost didn't tell him."
"You did tell him," Vane said softly. "When you agreed to the trap. When you stood on that stage. You trusted him with your life, Mina. That's the loudest way to say 'I love you' that exists."
I looked out the window. The city lights were a blurred smear of yellow and red against the dark sky.
"I just need him to open his eyes," I whispered.
Saturday morning.
The sun rose, painting the sterile hospital walls in pale, weak light.
I was allowed into Room 3 for ten minutes every two hours.
The routine was always the same. I would wash my hands with stinging antiseptic soap. I would put on the thin yellow gown. I would walk into the room and stand beside the bed, listening to the ventilator.
I would talk to him.
I told him about Nero, who was recovering nicely and had already bitten a veterinary technician. I told him about the blueprints for the solarium, detailing the specific type of reinforced glass I had chosen. I told him about the weather.
I told him everything except the one thing that mattered: Wake up.