Chapter 137

Chapter 137
NAYA'S POV

I sat close enough to hear the faint rhythm of the machines keeping Jordan steady, but my mind was far from steady. Stella was bent forward, her fingers curled tightly around Jordan’s hand like she was trying to anchor him back to us by sheer will alone. Her lips moved in silent prayer, eyes closed, lashes wet. I prayed too, but mine wasn’t the clean, holy kind of prayer. Mine was messy, tangled in fear and guilt, almost desperate enough to feel like bargaining.

I told myself to just breathe, to trust the doctors, to trust time, but that wasn’t enough. I hated the helplessness sitting like a stone in my chest. I kept wondering—what if he never opened his eyes again? What if this room became the last space where we felt his presence? The thought made my stomach twist. I tried to shut it down, but thoughts have a way of sneaking back in, sharper every time.

And beneath the fear for him, there was something else—anger. Anger at the cruelty of it all, at the way life never seems to give enough warnings before it tries to rip away what you love. Victor Cain’s shadow loomed in my head, and I thought of how easily people like him played with lives, as though others were pawns they could just knock off the board when they pleased. That anger boiled low inside me, hot enough that it scared me a little, because I wasn’t sure what I’d do with it if Jordan didn’t pull through.

I glanced at Stella. She looked fragile, like the smallest gust of wind could break her apart, but at the same time, there was this fierce determination in her face. Watching her whisper those prayers made me feel small and shaky inside. My own prayers felt clumsy compared to hers, half-formed words I wasn’t even sure anyone was listening to. But still, I prayed—because if I didn’t, if I stopped even for a second, I felt like the weight of despair would crush me.

So I prayed, and I spiraled. My mind jumped to the what-ifs. What if Jordan opened his eyes but never spoke again? What if he remembered nothing? What if his smile—the smile that had lit up so many of my dark days—was gone forever? I knew I was tormenting myself with those thoughts, but it felt impossible to stop.

I squeezed my hands together until my nails dug into my skin. Maybe it was to ground myself, maybe it was to stop myself from breaking down right there beside Stella. Because she needed me steady. And Jordan needed me steady. But inside, I was anything but.

I whispered a prayer that felt more like a plea than anything holy. "Please come back, Jordan. Please."

Then, the decision came slowly, the way a whisper of guilt threads itself into your chest until you can’t ignore it anymore. Sitting there beside Stella, with Jordan lying so still on the bed, I felt my heart tug in two directions. One half wanted to stay, to keep vigil at his side as if sheer presence could coax him awake, but the other half—it ached for Elijah. My little boy. I hadn’t realized until that moment how much I missed him, how long it had been since I held him, kissed his hair, felt the small weight of him curled against me. Maybe it was the mother in me, maybe it was just that primal bond, but I could almost feel him tugging at me from home, as though he knew I’d left him too long.

I reached over and touched Stella’s arm gently. Her eyes were still fixed on Jordan, her fingers gripping his hand with the kind of desperate tenderness that made my throat tighten. She didn’t look at me right away, and I didn’t push her. When she finally blinked and turned toward me, her expression was soft but exhausted, her cheeks blotched from crying and the sharp edge of sleeplessness lingering in her gaze.

“I need to go,” I murmured, my voice hesitant because part of me hated leaving her like this. “Elijah’s at home, and I… I should check on him. He probably misses me. I’ll come back first thing tomorrow morning.”

She didn’t protest, didn’t beg me to stay—though I think I could see in her eyes the flicker of fear, that tiny hope that maybe I’d change my mind and remain with her through the night. But Stella had always been stronger than she gave herself credit for. She nodded instead, a small, steady motion, and whispered, “Okay.”

I lingered longer than I should have. My gaze drifted back to Jordan, lying there beneath the faint hospital light. His chest rose and fell steadily now, a rhythm that soothed and tormented me in equal measure. He was alive. He was fighting. But seeing him so silent, so detached from us, left me with a hollow ache that no amount of prayer seemed to fill. For a moment, I just stood there, silently asking him to wake up. Just once. Just open his eyes so Stella could breathe again.

When I finally turned and walked out of the ward, it felt like dragging my feet through mud. The hallway was quiet, too quiet, the sterile hum of machines and the faint echo of footsteps in the distance pressing in on me. I kept glancing back, as though I might catch one last glimpse of them through the door before it closed behind me. But it shut gently, leaving me on the other side with nothing but the sound of my own breathing.

By the time I stepped out of the hospital, the cool night air brushed against my face, carrying the faint scent of rain in the distance. I inhaled deeply, trying to ease the tightness in my chest. Home. I needed to go home. Rest a little, yes, but more than that—I needed to see Elijah. To hold him, to remind myself of the reasons I kept moving through days like this, no matter how heavy they felt.

Because no matter how fractured everything else seemed, my son was my anchor. And right now, I missed him more than words could hold.