Chapter 188
Elena：POV
They loaded Elena into the ambulance, and I climbed in after her, ignoring the protests about protocol and procedure.
I wasn't letting her out of my sight.
Not again.
The doors slammed shut, and the ambulance lurched into motion, sirens wailing.
I reached for Elena's hand, threading my fingers through hers, and willed her to squeeze back.
She didn't.
"Come on, baby," I whispered. "Come back to me."
One of the paramedics—a burly guy with a Brooklyn accent—was checking her pupils with a penlight.
"Pupils are reactive," he said, making notes on a tablet. "That's good. Means the brain is still functioning."
"What about her memories?" The question burst out of me before I could stop it. "She has amnesia—four years' worth. If this injury is severe enough, could it—"
"Could go either way," he said bluntly. "Sometimes a second head trauma can actually restore lost memories. Sometimes it makes things worse. Sometimes it does nothing at all."
"So you're saying there's a chance she could remember?"
"I'm saying anything's possible." He adjusted the IV drip they'd started in Elena's arm. "But right now, let's focus on making sure she survives, yeah?"
The ambulance hit a pothole, and Elena's head lolled to the side.
I caught it gently, cradling her face in my hands.
"I love you," I whispered, even though she couldn't hear me. "I love you, and I'm so fucking sorry for everything."
The paramedic pretended not to hear.
---
We pulled up to NewYork-Presbyterian's emergency entrance twelve minutes later.
The doors flew open, and chaos erupted.
Doctors and nurses swarmed the stretcher, wheeling Elena away before I could even process what was happening.
"Sir, we need you to—"
"Where are they taking her?"
"CT scan. We need to assess the extent of the head injury."
"I'm coming with—"
"Sir, you can't—"
"The fuck I can't!" I started to follow, but two orderlies blocked my path.
"Mr. Sterling."
I turned to see a doctor—woman in her fifties, steel-gray hair, no-nonsense expression—standing behind me.
"I'm Dr. Morris," she said. "I'll be overseeing your wife's care. But right now, you need to let my team do their job."
"I need to be with her—"
"What you need to do," she interrupted firmly, "is get yourself checked out. You're bleeding, you're in shock, and you're no good to your wife or your daughter if you collapse."
"My daughter—" I looked around wildly. "Where's Lila?"
"The second ambulance just pulled up. She's fine—scared, but fine."
As if on cue, the emergency room doors burst open again, and there she was.
Lila, still wrapped in a shock blanket, being carried by the same paramedic who'd taken her from me at the scene.
She saw me and immediately started squirming.
"Mr. Sad Uncle!"
I crossed the distance in three strides and took her from the paramedic, holding her so tight I was probably hurting her, but I couldn't make myself let go.
"I've got you, princess," I said into her hair. "I've got you."
"Where's Mommy?" She pulled back to look at me, her eyes—my eyes—wide with fear. "Is she going to be okay?"
I opened my mouth to reassure her, but the lie wouldn't come.
"I don't know, baby," I said instead. "But the doctors are doing everything they can."
Lila's face crumpled, and she buried it against my shoulder, her small body shaking with sobs.
I looked up to find Dr. Morris watching us, her expression unreadable.
"We'll take good care of her," she said quietly. "Your wife. I promise."
I could only nod, my throat too tight to speak.
---
They made me sit in the waiting room.
Made me fill out paperwork with hands that wouldn't stop shaking.
Made me answer questions about Elena's medical history that I couldn't fully answer because there were four years missing, four years Alexander had stolen from both of us.
A nurse checked me over—cleaned the cuts on my hands and knees, pronounced me "bruised but functional"—and tried to get me to change into dry clothes.
I refused.
If Elena woke up, I wanted to be ready. Wanted to be there.
When Elena woke up, I corrected myself fiercely. When.
An hour passed.
Then two.
Lila had fallen asleep in my lap, exhausted from crying, her face blotchy and her breath hitching even in sleep.
I held her and stared at the double doors that led back to the examination rooms, willing someone—anyone—to come through them and tell me Elena was okay.
Finally, Dr. Morris emerged.
I was on my feet before she'd taken three steps, carefully shifting Lila in my arms.
"How is she?"
"The CT scan shows a severe concussion, but no skull fracture and no bleeding on the brain." She paused. "That's the good news."
My stomach dropped. "And the bad news?"
"She's still unconscious. We won't know the full extent of the neurological impact until she wakes up."
"When will that be?"
"Could be hours. Could be days." She pulled off her glasses, cleaning them with the edge of her coat. "Mr. Sterling, I need you to prepare yourself for the possibility that when she does wake up, she might not be the same person who went into that CT machine."
"What the hell does that mean?"
"It means head injuries are unpredictable. She could wake up with her memories intact. She could wake up with even more amnesia than before. She could wake up and not recognize you or your daughter." Dr. Morris put her glasses back on. "We simply don't know."
I felt like I'd been punched in the gut.
"Can I see her?"
"She's being moved to a private room now. Once she's settled, yes."