Chapter 72 072
EMILY
I couldn’t calm down. I just couldn’t.
My whole body felt like it was vibrating, like someone had plugged me into an electric socket and left the current running. Cecilia’s words kept looping in my mind: “I told her to come.” Every time I heard them, fresh rage boiled in my chest, bitter and metallic, sharp enough to taste on my tongue.
I crashed the second she said it. Full-on, completely lost it. My hands shot forward, claws ready, my voice a scream I couldn’t even remember. Nurses shouted, alarms blared, people turned—but I didn’t care. I was a hurricane, and Cecilia was standing in the eye.
We nearly fought right there in the hospital hallway, like two strangers in a bar brawl. One nurse grabbed me around the waist, hauling me back, and another stepped in front of Cecilia, like she was guarding royalty.
But Cecilia didn’t even flinch. She smoothed her coat, lifted her chin, and said in that ice-cold, precise voice, “They’re divorced. I have more rights here than she does.”
More rights.
The phrase stabbed me over and over while the nurses dragged me away. More rights. More rights. Well, she was not lying.
I ended up back in the waiting area, trembling so hard my teeth chattered. My legs gave out twice before I managed to sink into one of the hard, plastic chairs. My hands were slick with sweat, my pulse hammering like a drum in my skull.
I called Morgan without thinking. My thumb found her name, pressed it, and my voice barely worked when she answered. “Hospital. Ryan. Please… come.”
No questions. No hesitation. Just, “I’m on my way,” and the line clicked dead.
Forty minutes later, she burst through the sliding doors like a hurricane herself—leggings, oversized hoodie, hair in a messy bun, mascara smudged from the drive—but she didn’t care.
She spotted me immediately, ran straight over, and dropped to her knees in front of my chair.
“Em,” she breathed, grabbing both my hands. “Breathe, baby. Breathe with me.”
I tried. I really did. But every inhale felt jagged, like shards of glass scraping my lungs. Tears kept spilling down my cheeks, but it wasn’t sadness alone—it was fury, guilt, helplessness, all tangled together. I couldn’t tell one from the other.
“She said she has more rights,” I whispered, voice cracking. “She brought Miranda here. Miranda. Like she’s the new girl, and I’m the ex who needs to be put in her place.”
Morgan’s jaw tightened. I saw the muscle jump beneath her skin. “That woman is evil wrapped in Chanel. I swear to God.”
I laughed, but it was wet and ugly. “I almost fought her. In a hospital. With Ryan in surgery. What kind of person does that?”
“The kind who loves her man,” Morgan said without hesitation. “The kind who’s terrified of losing him. That’s not crazy, Em. That’s human.”
I shook my head, tears spilling faster. “I told him I wished him the worst day this morning. I was so mad about the date, about Miranda, about everything. I literally wished it. And now…” My voice broke, and I buried my face in my hands.
Morgan pulled me forward, resting my forehead on her shoulder. She wrapped her arms around me tight, rocking us slightly, and I let myself fall apart. I sobbed, shaking, spilling every ounce of fear and regret into the fabric of her hoodie.
“I love him,” I whispered. “I love my Ryan so much, and it hurts. It hurts to think I wished him bad. What if he doesn’t wake up? What if the last thing I ever said to him was angry? What if—”
“Shhh,” she whispered, stroking my hair. “He’s going to wake up. He’s too damn stubborn to do anything else. And even if he was mad at you this morning, he still loves you. He’s always loved you. You know that.”
I nodded against her shoulder, letting the words wash over me, though the tears didn’t stop. I cried until my throat felt raw and my eyes burned. Morgan didn’t rush me. She didn’t scold me. She just let me fall apart.
Eventually, I lifted my head. “I never stopped loving him,” I whispered. “All this time I told myself I was over it, that I’d moved on, that Zara and the bakery were enough. But I never stopped. Not even a little.”
Morgan smiled through her own tears. “I know, baby. I’ve always known.”
She wiped my cheeks with her sleeve. “We’re going to get through this. You, me, Zara, and that stubborn man in there who refuses to leave you alone. Okay?”
I nodded. “Okay.”
She helped me to my feet. My legs felt like jelly, but I could walk. We moved back toward the surgical waiting area, arms linked, leaning on each other.
Then the nausea hit.
My stomach flipped hard, and I clapped a hand over my mouth. Morgan’s eyes widened.
“Hey—hey, you good?”
I shook my head and bolted for the nearest trash can. I barely made it before everything came up—my breakfast, the coffee I forced down, acid, fear, guilt—all of it. I heaved until my eyes watered and my ribs ached.
Morgan was there instantly, pulling my hair back with one hand, rubbing my back with the other. “Okay, okay, get it all out.”
When it finally stopped, I sagged against the wall, wiping my mouth. Morgan ran to the vending machine, fed it quarters, and came back with a tiny bottle of water. I took it, shaking, swished, spit into the trash can, then drank the rest in small sips.
“Did you eat something bad?” she asked.
“No. It’s stress,” I whispered. “Everything. I haven’t slept. Haven’t eaten properly. My body’s done.”
Morgan frowned but didn’t push. “Sit. Rest for a minute.”
I sank back into the chair, head tipped against the wall. The nausea lingered, sour and aching, but at least I wasn’t actively heaving.
Morgan sat beside me, taking my hand. “We’re going to be okay,” she whispered. “All of us.”
I wanted to believe her so badly.
Then the nurse from earlier rounded the corner, clipboard in hand, calm and professional.
“Ma’am? He’s awake.”
The words didn’t register at first.
I blinked slowly. “He’s… awake?”
She nodded. “He’s in recovery. You can see him now. One at a time.”
I dropped Morgan’s hand and stood so fast the room tilted. Morgan grabbed my elbow. “Go,” she said. “I’ll wait here.”
I didn’t need to be told twice.
Half-walking, half-running, sneakers squeaking again, heart slamming, I followed the nurse down the hallway. We turned corners, passed the antiseptic smell that now seemed softer, warmer. Curtains divided the bays, the hum of machines steady and gentle.
She stopped outside one of the bays, pulling the curtain back just enough.
Ryan.
He was propped slightly upright, eyes open, blinking slowly like the light hurt. Bandages wrapped his head. An IV line ran into his arm. Bruises were already blooming across his face.
I almost collapsed again but stepped inside.
Doctors spoke quietly with Cecilia at the foot of the bed. Miranda hovered behind her, hands clasped, small and anxious.
Ryan’s gaze drifted, unfocused, then landed on me.
For one perfect second, recognition. Warmth. Relief.
Then confusion rushed back.
“Who…?” His voice hoarse, weak, puzzled. “Who are you?”
The room froze.
Cecilia’s smile curved just slightly.
The doctor cleared his throat. “Mr. Thompson is experiencing selective amnesia. It’s not uncommon after a head injury. He remembers basic facts, but significant personal relationships and recent events are temporarily inaccessible.”
I stared.
He stared.
Blank. Polite. Confused.
Like I was a stranger.
I stepped forward, heart in my throat. “Ryan,” I whispered.
He tilted his head. “I’m sorry. Do I know you?”
Cecilia’s smile widened.
In that moment, I realized exactly what she had been praying for all along: the chance to erase me completely. And I think the universe hates me so bad for granting her that request.