Chapter 65 Hospital Aftermath

Chapter 65 Hospital Aftermath
Alexander’s POV

I don’t go home. I don’t even leave the hospital.

I just sit here in the chair beside Ivy’s bed, elbows on my knees, fists knotted beneath my jaw. The fluorescent light hums overhead. The beeping of her monitors is the only proof she’s still here—still fighting.

She hasn’t woken up.

Her skin is pale. Bruises bloom like angry flowers across her temple and cheekbone. There’s a bandage around her ribs, and her wrist is taped where they ran an IV.

I reach forward and gently place a hand on her stomach it's flat beneath the hospital gown. A nurse told me earlier the baby was still okay. Somehow. I don't know how. She should be broken in half from the way that car slammed into her side.

But that heartbeat—tiny, thready, flickering on the screen—it's still there. Still fucking there.

I lean in closer, palm flat over her belly.

“Hey, little one,” I whisper, my voice cracking like splintered wood. “You’re still in there, huh? Hanging on.”

My throat tightens. I hate this. Hate how fucking helpless I feel.

“Ivy’s strong,” I murmur. “Too goddamn stubborn to leave me. Just like you, I guess. You got her fire.”

I blink hard. My jaw clenches as I feel that familiar heat sting the backs of my eyes.

“I swear to you,” I grit, “I will kill every single person who had a hand in this. You hear me? They tried to take your mother. Tried to take you. I’ll burn the fucking world if either of you dies.”

I press my forehead to her belly. My voice drops, raw, torn.

“Don’t leave me, baby. Don’t leave me too.”

The door creaks open.

I don’t move. I know that perfume. That too-loud voice.

Jess.

“Shit,” she says quietly. “She looks like hell.”

I lift my head. She stands by the door, still in her hoodie and leggings, hair up in a messy bun. Her eyes are red-rimmed, but her tone is still sharp.

“You okay?” she asks.

“No.”

She nods once and walks in anyway.

Jess pulls a chair beside me and sits down, not saying anything for a long while. Then:

“You know she’ll wake up just to yell at you for not feeding her, right?”

I snort. “She’ll wake up and kick my ass for not painting her nails while she was out.”

Jess grins. “Don’t tempt me. I brought polish.”

My smile dies too quickly. I look back at Ivy, lifeless beneath the sheets.

Jess follows my gaze. “She’s gonna be okay,” she says, softer this time. “Ivy’s built different. Always has been.”

“She shouldn’t have to be.”

“No. But she is.” Jess leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “And you? You look like you haven’t breathed since you got here.”

“I haven’t.”

Jess is quiet. Then she says something that makes my whole goddamn chest seize:

“She’s going to be a mom. You’re gonna be a dad. You’re allowed to fall apart a little.”

I exhale like I’ve been drowning.

Yeah.

Yeah, maybe I am.

But not yet.

Not until she opens those fucking eyes.



Hospital Room – Hours Later

It’s quiet again. Too fucking quiet.

The kind of silence that seeps into your bones and makes your skin crawl.

I’m still sitting in the same chair, Ivy’s hand in mine. The weight of her fingers—warm but limp—feels like a memory of what they used to be. My other hand hasn’t left her stomach. Not once.

The nurse had come in a few times. Silent, careful, respectful. She checked the IV, adjusted the machines, looked at me like I might shatter if she blinked too loud.

I didn’t ask anything. I didn’t want to know more until Ivy could hear it with me.

But then the door opens again. And this time, it’s not the nurse.

It’s the doctor.

A man in his fifties, tired eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. White coat. Clipboard. The look on his face?

I know that fucking look. I stand up before he even says a word. My chest tightens. My jaw locks so hard I feel something crack at the hinge.

“Talk,” I growl. “Now.”

He swallows, stepping further in. “Mr. Alexander Wolfe…”

My full name makes me want to punch a wall. Nobody calls me that unless it’s legal or lethal.

“There’s no easy way to say this,” he begins gently, eyes flicking to Ivy, then back to me. “The trauma from the accident was… significant. And though there was a heartbeat earlier—”

I go still. Completely still.

“Was?”

He nods once, slow, careful. “There was internal bleeding. And complications. The fetus was too small. Too early to survive what her body endured.”

I stare at him. My ears are ringing.

“I’m sorry,” he says, voice low. “You lost the baby.”

To Be Continued…