Chapter 106

Chapter 106
Her sense of smell was the first thing to wake. The room smelled like antiseptic and plastic, sharp and clean in a way that made Neema’s nose itch. Opening her eyes, Neema quickly regretted the action and shut them again. Wherever she was, the lights above her were too bright, humming softly, as though the ceiling itself were alive. 

It took her another minute or two to gather her bearings and finally open her eyes and look around. There were suddenly no gaps in her memory. Neema drew a sharp breath when she remembered the accident and Jerome, which explained why she was in a hospital bed that felt narrower than it looked, white sheets tucked too tight around her legs.

On the good side, though, she was finally pain-free, and it was a relief.

Even though her body felt heavy, warm, distant, wrapped in cotton, and calm. The sharp agony that had torn through her ribs and ankle earlier was now gone, replaced by a dull pressure and a strange floating sensation, as if she were only loosely attached to herself.

A careful check told her that her ribs were bound snugly, a firm wrap hugging her torso every time she breathed. Her left arm rested in a sling against her chest, shoulder immobilized. The doctor’s voice echoed faintly in her memory: Not dislocated. No serious damage. You’re lucky. A bump throbbed gently on the side of her head, tender to the touch, and purple-and-blue bruises bloomed everywhere she looked, her thigh, her wrist, the edge of her collarbone.

Lucky. Yeah. She’d been extremely lucky.

Neema’s gaze drifted down to the IV line taped into her right hand, clear liquid dripping steadily into her vein. She followed the line up with her eyes, grounding herself in its quiet rhythm. Drip. Drip. Drip.

She looked worse than she felt. She knew that. But knowing didn’t stop the tight ache in her chest that had nothing to do with a bruised body.

Suddenly, movement in the corner of her eye caught her attention. A nurse moved quietly around the room. She checked the clipboard at the foot of the bed and then adjusted something on the monitor before she turned to Neema and realized her eyes were open. The woman’s kind eyes smiled at Neema above her mask.

“Hi. You are awake again. How are you feeling?” the nurse asked softly.

Had she woken up before? Neema couldn’t remember. She didn’t think it mattered right then. She had a more pressing matter to ask. “Excuse me,” Neema said, her voice rough, as if she’d been screaming for hours instead of lying still in a drug-induced sleep. “Could you… Could you call my parents? And-” She hesitated, throat tightening. “And Quinton?”

The nurse paused, her fingers on the IV line, and looked at Neema with a soft smile that carried both reassurance and concern. “You already asked, sweetheart. Everything’s been taken care of.”

Neema frowned slightly. “I did?”

“Yes. More than once,” the nurse said kindly, turning to fully look at her as though she was trying to read something on Neema’s face. “Your father was listed as your emergency contact. So we had no trouble getting his details, and he’s been called. He said he’s on his way.”

Neema’s stomach dropped.

“Oh,” Neema whispered.

A knot tightened in her gut. Not just the concern that she didn’t seem to remember already having this conversation, but also because she could already imagine the stress her phone call would have caused her father. 

Hasani Madaki did not handle fear well when it came to his only child. He hid it behind calm words and controlled movements, but Neema knew the signs, the rigid shoulders, the way his jaw locked when he was trying not to panic. He would have taken the call quietly, thanked whoever was on the line, and then immediately fallen apart the moment he was alone. And given his health, Neema was now suddenly regretful that she’d told them to call him.

Her chest tightened painfully despite the medication.

“I’m sorry,” the nurse added, seeing Neema’s anguish but misinterpreting the reason behind it. “He sounded worried, but he promised he’d be here soon. Just hold on a little.”

But Neema was already shaking her head. “Should have called my mom.”

The nurse frowned but didn’t pry. Neema was grateful. She didn’t want to explain while she fought to swallow around the guilt curling in her stomach. She hated that her parents would be scared because of her. Again. Hated that her choices, her life, kept bringing them stress.

“And Quinton?” Neema finally asked quietly, her heart already picking up speed just from whispering his name. Did he know she was in the hospital? God, she couldn’t imagine what he was going through if he knew Jerome had been behind it.

The nurse opened her mouth to answer, but right then, the door burst open with the force of something or someone really angry pushing it open.

The sound was loud, sharp, completely out of place in the controlled hush of the hospital. Both Neema and the nurse flinched, and for a terrifying second, Neema thought it was Jerome coming to finish what he’d started on the tarred road, and her heart jumped into her throat. Her right hand clenched in the sheet even as she contemplated jumping out of bed and running. That was until she saw who exactly had entered the room.

“Neema.” Quinton’s voice was raw. Broken. Terrified. He stood in the doorway, chest heaving, eyes wild as they locked onto her. He looked like he’d run through fire to get there. His hair was disheveled, shirt wrinkled and half untucked, jaw clenched so tight a muscle ticked along his cheek. His eyes swept over her in one frantic pass, but she was sure he missed nothing. Not that it would have been possible to miss the sling around her left arm, the bandages, the IV, and the colourful bruises.

She wasn’t too surprised when his face drained of color.

“Oh God,” he breathed. Quinton took a step closer, and the nurse stepped back instinctively. Quinton’s steps were urgent. He stopped short of the bed as though afraid to touch her. His hands hovered in the air, fingers flexing uselessly.

Neema’s chest tightened in a different way now. She drew a deep breath and promptly grimaced from the tightness around her chest, but still managed a soft, “Hey.” 

The sound of her voice seemed to snap something in him. With jerky movements, he hurried forward and pressed his lips to her forehead for a very long moment before he dropped into the chair beside her bed with a force that rattled the metal frame, one hand gripping the edge of the mattress like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

“I thought…” His voice broke. Quinton shook his head, and he cleared his throat hard, dragging a hand over his face. “I thought I would lose you.”

Her heart twisted painfully at that. She shifted slightly, ignoring the protest from her ribs, and reached out with her good hand. Her fingers brushed his sleeve.

“I’m okay,” she said. “I promise. I look… Dramatic, but I’m okay.”

He let out a shaky breath that sounded like it had been trapped in his lungs for hours. His eyes dropped to her hand, then lifted to her face, searching her like he needed proof.

“They told your dad that your cab was hit,” he said, voice low and shaking with barely contained fury. “On purpose.” He held her gaze with his narrowed one. “Who was it, Neema?”