Chapter 154
Lena's POV
The call came at 6:47 a.m.
I was already awake, staring at the ceiling of my bedroom, when my phone buzzed. Rowan's name flashed on the screen.
"She's awake," Rowan said before I could speak. "Diana woke up about twenty minutes ago. Jack just texted me. I'll be waiting for you downstairs."
I was out of bed before he finished the sentence.
"I'm coming down."
---
The drive to the hospital blurred into a series of traffic lights and half-remembered turns. The image of Diana's body crumpled on the asphalt kept replaying in my mind—blood on her temple, her arm bent at that horrible angle, the way she'd looked at me before her eyes went unfocused.
She pushed me out of the way. Took the impact meant for me.
The parking garage was nearly empty at this hour. Rowan and I took the elevator to the ICU floor, my reflection in the metal doors pale and hollow-eyed. I hadn't slept more than four hours since the crash.
Jack was waiting in the hallway when I arrived, looking like he'd slept in his suit. "She's asking for you," he said simply, and stepped aside.
Diana was pale and battered, her left arm in a sling, but her eyes were clear. When I started to apologize, she cut me off with the same quiet firmness I'd come to recognize as pure Diana: This is Marcus Grant's fault. Not yours.
Rowan had come with me, offering to cover all medical expenses. Diana had tried to protest, but Jack—loyal, stubborn Jack—had shut that down immediately. "Don't argue with her about this. She's stubborn."
I'd caught the look that passed between them then. Something unspoken, careful, tentative.
I stayed most of the day, only leaving when Diana—exhausted and clearly in pain despite the medication—gently insisted I go home and rest. "You're still recovering too," she'd said, eyeing the bandage above my eyebrow. "Go. I'll still be here tomorrow."
So I went.
But I came back the next day. And the day after that.
---
Four Days Later
Diana was healing, but slowly. The initial surgeries had stabilized her, but Dr. Kimura remained concerned about the complexity of her shoulder fracture. On the third day, he'd sat us down—me, Jack, and Emily—and explained that a second surgery would be necessary.
"The clavicle fracture is more severe than the initial scans showed," he'd said. "We need to wait for the swelling to subside before we can operate. But it's necessary for full recovery."
Diana had taken the news with characteristic calm, but I'd seen the flicker of fear in her eyes. Another surgery. More anesthesia, more risk, more time in this sterile room.
"When?" she'd asked.
"Four or five days. We'll monitor the swelling and schedule accordingly."
That had been two days ago.
Now, at 5:30 a.m. on surgery day, I stood in the pre-dawn quiet of the hospital parking garage, watching my breath fog in the November air. The surgery was scheduled for 7 a.m. I'd promised Diana I'd be here when they took her in.
Jack's car was already in its usual spot—third row, near the elevator. Of course it was.
---
The ICU floor was quiet at this hour, just the soft beep of monitors and hushed voices of night-shift nurses finishing their rounds. Jack stood outside Diana's room, two coffee cups balanced in one hand, phone pressed to his ear with the other.
He ended the call when he saw me. "Mr. Reynolds," he said by way of greeting. "He wanted me to update you. Marcus Grant was extradited yesterday. He's in federal custody at the downtown detention center."
My breath caught, but I kept my voice steady. "When's the arraignment?"
"They're finalizing the schedule. Likely within the next few days." Jack paused, studying my face. "Mr. Reynolds said he'd call you himself after the surgery. He didn't want to... intrude this morning."
I nodded. Rowan was learning boundaries. Respecting the space I needed.
"Thank you," I said quietly.
Jack handed me one of the coffees. "She's awake. Pretending she's not nervous."
---
Diana was sitting up in bed when I entered, dressed in a faded hospital gown, her hair pulled back in a messy braid. She looked smaller somehow, stripped of her usual armor of sharp blazers and sharper words.
"You're early," she said.
"Wanted to make sure you didn't make a run for it."
A faint smile. "Thought about it. Decided the IV would slow me down."
I set my coffee on the side table and sat carefully on the edge of her bed. "How are you feeling?"
"Honestly?" Diana's fingers twisted the edge of the thin blanket. "Terrified."
The admission surprised me. Diana didn't do vulnerability easily—I recognized the trait because I shared it.
"Dr. Kimura is the best," I said. "You'll be fine."
"Logically, I know that." She looked down at her hands. "But logic doesn't seem to be working right now."
I reached out and took her good hand, squeezed once. "Then don't rely on logic. Rely on this: I'll be here when you wake up. Jack will be here. Emily's on her way. You're not alone in this."
Diana's eyes glistened. She nodded once, throat working.
A nurse appeared in the doorway, clipboard in hand. "Ms. Clarke? We're ready to take you down to pre-op."
Diana's fingers tightened on mine for just a second before she let go.
I stood, moved aside as the nurse and an orderly began preparing to wheel the bed out. At the doorway, I touched Diana's shoulder gently.
"Hey," I said. "You saved my life. The least I can do is be here when you wake up from getting your shoulder fixed. Deal?"
She managed a real smile at that. "Deal."
I walked alongside the bed until we reached the double doors marked SURGICAL WING—AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. Diana met my eyes one last time.
"Don't let Jack do anything stupid while I'm under," she said.
"I make no guarantees."
Her soft laugh followed me as the doors swung shut.
I stood there for a long moment, staring at those doors, my heartbeat too loud in my ears.
Jack appeared beside me, silent and steady.
"She'll be okay," he said quietly. Not a question. A statement of fact, as if he could will it into being through sheer determination.
I wanted to believe him.
"Come on," he said finally. "Coffee's getting cold."
---
The surgery took three and a half hours.
Emily arrived around hour two with sandwiches no one ate and a determined cheerfulness that helped more than I wanted to admit. She sat beside me in the uncomfortable waiting room chairs, scrolling through her phone, occasionally reading aloud ridiculous news headlines to fill the silence.
Jack worked steadily on his laptop, fielding emails and calls in a low, clipped voice. Every so often, his gaze would drift to the surgical wing doors, then back to his screen.
At one point, my phone buzzed.
Rowan: Any updates?
I stared at the message, then typed back: Still in surgery. No news yet.
Rowan: Let me know when she's out. And Lena—you're doing the right thing. Being there for her.
Something in my chest loosened slightly. I locked my phone and leaned my head back against the wall.
Finally, Dr. Kimura emerged, still in scrubs, surgical cap in hand.
"The procedure went very well," he said. "We were able to fully repair the clavicle fracture and stabilize the shoulder joint. Barring any complications, she should make a complete recovery. It will require physical therapy, but she'll regain full range of motion."