Chapter 155 Narrow Escape
Chapter 155 Narrow Escape
Eleanor's POV
Hospital corridor fluorescent lights hummed, thrumming at a pitch that ached my teeth. I’d stared at their stark white glow overhead for hours; this sterile institutional lighting was meant to ward off drowsiness, yet weariness weighed every inch of me. Caked blood crusted my clothes rigid like a misshapen extra layer of skin.
Perched on a plastic bench outside the OR, I sat stiff with bone-deep exhaustion. My hands locked tight in my lap, knuckles blanching as nails sank into my palms. The stinging pain barely registered.
All my attention fixed on the swinging operating-room door with its tiny fortified pane: behind it, Julian’s life hung in the balance.
Three stab wounds. Self-inflicted. To save me.
The thought circled endlessly, a vulture I couldn't shake.
Wyatt sat beside me, elbows on his knees, exhaustion etched into every line of his face. He'd been silent for the past twenty minutes, which I appreciated. I couldn't have formed coherent words if I'd tried.
"Elle." His voice was gentle, the tone you'd use with something fragile. "Stop blaming yourself. What he did—that was his choice. He was protecting you."
I didn't respond. Couldn't. The memory was too vivid: Julian kneeling on that cabin floor, knife pressed to his own chest, eyes locked on mine with absolute certainty. The sound the blade had made entering his flesh—wet, obscene. The way blood had bloomed through his shirt in dark flowers.
"He stabbed himself three times." My voice came out hollow, barely recognizable. "He was going to drive the blade into his chest. Because of me."
"Because he loves you," Wyatt corrected. "There's a difference."
Was there? Love that drove someone to self-destruction—was that love or something darker? Something I'd somehow inspired without meaning to?
I stared at the OR doors, willing them to open, willing someone to emerge with news that Julian was fine, that this was all a terrible nightmare I could wake from.
The doors stayed closed.
---
Footsteps echoed down the corridor—rapid, urgent. I looked up to see Blake, Chloe, and Zach rushing toward us. Chloe's mascara had tracked down her face in dark rivers. Blake's usual easy humor was completely absent, replaced by something I'd never seen before: fear.
"How is he?" Blake's voice came out too loud in the quiet corridor. "Wyatt just said 'hospital' and 'critical'—what the hell happened?"
Chloe grabbed my hands, her skin warm against my cold fingers. "Elle, oh my God, is he—"
I shook my head. Couldn't form the words.
Wyatt stood, positioning himself between me and the others like a buffer. "He's in surgery. Lost a lot of blood, but..." He forced a grin that looked more like a grimace. "You know Julian. Too stubborn to die. Probably arguing with the surgeons right now about their technique."
The attempt at humor fell flat. No one laughed.
Zach sank into a chair, his hands visibly shaking. "What happened out there?"
I choked out the abbreviated account: the abduction, Jack, the agonizing no-win choice Julian had been forced into. As I spoke, I watched their expressions swing from shock to dread to stunned incredulity.
My throat constricted mid-sentence, and I forced the words out hoarsely. “Jack made a deal with Julian to save me. Every time Julian stabbed himself, one of my ropes came undone. He stabbed himself three times in total. The second he raised the blade for a fourth stab, I broke free, snatched the knife from Jack’s hand, and stopped him before he could drive that fourth wound into his body.”
"Jesus Christ," Blake breathed.
Chloe's grip on my hands tightened. "But he's going to be okay, right? They can fix this?"
"We don't know yet." Wyatt's voice was steady, but I could hear the fear underneath. "The surgery's been going for four hours now."
Four hours. Had it really been that long? Time had lost all meaning in this corridor, marked only by the rhythm of my own heartbeat and the relentless hum of those fluorescent lights.
We settled into silence again, the kind that pressed against your eardrums. Chloe sat on my other side, her presence warm and solid. Blake paced. Zach stared at his phone like it might offer answers. Wyatt remained standing, arms crossed, jaw tight.
---
The OR doors finally swung open.
Everyone stood immediately, a synchronized movement driven by desperate hope. I felt my legs nearly give out, caught myself on the chair arm. A surgeon emerged—Dr. Morrison, late forties, tired but composed in the way of someone who'd done this a thousand times.
"Family of Julian Vance?"
"We're his friends," Blake said quickly. "His fiancée is here." He gestured to me.
"The surgery went well," Dr. Morrison's eyes found mine as he said, and the relief that flooded through me was so intense it was painful. My knees actually buckled this time. Wyatt caught me, held me steady.
Dr. Morrison continued, his tone professional but not unkind. "Three deep knife wounds—left arm, right arm, and one thigh wound. The arm injuries were deep but narrowly missed major arteries by millimeters. The thigh wound was more concerning—nicked the femoral vein, which caused the severe blood loss."
He paused, letting that sink in. Millimeters. Julian had come within millimeters of bleeding out before anyone could reach him.
"We've repaired all three wounds, transfused four units of blood. No damage to major organs or nerves. He was..." Dr. Morrison's expression shifted, something like wonder crossing his face. "Extremely lucky."
"Lucky," I repeated. The word felt absurd. Julian had stabbed himself three times. There was nothing lucky about that.
Dr. Morrison seemed to read my thoughts. His voice gentled further. "If the fourth cut had happened—if he'd gone through with the chest wound—we wouldn't be having this conversation."
The world tilted. Wyatt's grip on my arm tightened, the only thing keeping me from collapsing entirely.
"He'll need to stay for observation," Dr. Morrison continued. "At least a week. Complete bed rest for two weeks after discharge. Physical therapy for the leg. But he should make a full recovery."
Should. The word was a lifeline and a threat all at once.
"When can we see him?" Chloe's voice was thick with tears.
"He's being moved to VIP recovery room 407. He's still under anesthesia, won't wake for several hours. You can see him once he's settled." Dr. Morrison glanced at me specifically.
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
Dr. Morrison left, and the collective exhale from our group was so profound it was almost painful. Blake's shoulders sagged. Zach put his head in his hands. Chloe was crying openly now, relief and residual fear mixing on her face.
"He's going to be okay," Wyatt said quietly. "He's going to be okay."
I wanted to believe him. But all I could think about was that word: should.
---
A nurse told us the room wasn’t ready for visitors yet, so we were shown to the adjacent VIP waiting lounge.
We headed to the VIP waiting room without a word. It was far better furnished: padded armchairs replaced cold plastic seats, the lights cast a gentler glow, and the coffee machine looked capable of brewing decent coffee. Even so, it remained undeniably a hospital—a space built for waiting on life-altering news that could break everything apart.
I sank into a chair by the window, staring out at Greenwich's nighttime skyline without really seeing it. Behind me, I could hear the others talking in low voices—making plans, offering comfort, trying to process what had happened.
"Elle." Chloe's voice pulled me back. "You've been here for hours. You're covered in blood, you haven't eaten—"
“I’ll get changed and grab something to eat once I’ve calmed down. Don’t worry.” My voice was flat, final.
"At least let one of us stay with you—" Chloe said.