Chapter 131
[Rose's POV]
The first thing I registered was pain—sharp, throbbing, radiating from my wrists, my throat, my feet. The second was light, pale and watery, filtering through venetian blinds to paint thin stripes across white walls. Hospital room.
The third thing was James.
He sat in a folding chair beside my bed, still wearing the charcoal suit, the tie loose around his neck, the jacket draped over the chair's back. His right hand rested on mine where it lay atop the blanket, his left pressed against the pocket watch he always carried. His head was bowed, silver hair catching the morning sun, and I couldn't tell if he was sleeping or praying or simply too exhausted to lift his gaze.
My throat tightened. I tried to pull my hand back—gently, carefully—but the movement tugged at the bandages around my wrist, sending a sharp spike of pain up my arm. I gasped before I could stop myself.
James's head snapped up. For a heartbeat, we just looked at each other—his eyes bloodshot and red-rimmed, mine probably no better. Then his face crumpled, just for a second, before he dragged the iron control back into place. His grip on my hand tightened.
"You're awake." His voice came out hoarse, scraped raw, like he'd spent the night screaming or crying or both. He cleared his throat, tried again. "How do you feel?"
"Like I got hit by a truck." The words rasped past my bruised throat. "How long have I been out?"
"Eight hours. They brought you in around three a.m." He reached for the water pitcher on the bedside table with his free hand, poured a cup with movements that were too controlled, too precise. "The police have the three suspects in custody. They're still processing the scene at the warehouse."
I took the cup, sipped carefully. The water soothed my raw throat but did nothing for the knot forming in my chest as I watched him.
"Christopher's downstairs," he continued, his voice steady now, professional, like he was giving a board presentation. "He's coordinating with the police and our legal team. Benjamin's in surgery—they're repairing the damage from the car accident, plus the new injuries from last night. The doctors said—"
"Jimmy." I set the cup down, covered his trembling hand with my bandaged one. "How long did you wait in that hallway?"
He went still. His eyes flicked away, toward the window, the IV stand, anywhere but my face. "I don't know what you mean."
"Mr. Sullivan." A nurse pushed through the door, clipboard in hand, her smile professionally cheerful. She nodded to James as she approached my bed. "You waited three hours in the corridor before they'd let you in. You should really get something to eat now that she's awake."
The silence that followed was sharp enough to cut. James's jaw tightened. The nurse, oblivious to the tension, checked my vitals and made notes before bustling back out.
I looked at him. Just looked.
"It wasn't three hours," he said finally, his voice very quiet. "It was two and a half."
Something cracked in my chest. I opened my mouth to tell him he was too old for this, that he needed to take care of himself, that I wasn't worth—
But the words died when I saw him fumble with his collar, trying to straighten it with fingers that wouldn't quite stop shaking, and I realized: I couldn't scold him for loving me.
"I'd like some tea," I said instead. "The kind you always carry in that flask."
He froze, his hand halfway to his collar. Stared at me. Then his expression did something complicated—relief and grief and something that might have been joy, all tangled together—and he bent to retrieve the thermos from his briefcase.
His hands were steadier when he poured.
---
The door banged open fifteen minutes later.
Alexander stood in the doorway, his hair sticking up at chaotic angles, eyes ringed with red, hoodie wrinkled like he'd slept in it—if he'd slept at all. He looked at me, at James, at the bandages on my wrists and the IV in my arm, and something in his face just crumbled.
James rose without a word, squeezed Alexander's shoulder once as he passed. "I'll get breakfast," he said quietly, giving us space.
The door clicked shut. Alexander stood frozen, hands jammed in his hoodie pocket, staring at the linoleum floor like it held all the answers in the universe.
"Rose." He swallowed hard, took two steps into the room, stopped again. "Rose, that night—the bar—if I hadn't suggested it, if I hadn't gotten drunk, if I'd stayed conscious long enough to notice when you—" His voice cracked. "You wouldn't have—"
"Alex." I kept my voice steady, even though exhaustion was already creeping back in. "When did you lose consciousness that night? Before me or after?"
He blinked, thrown by the question. "I—before. Way before. I don't even remember how many shots Mike kept passing me. I just remember waking up in some alley with a splitting headache and my phone going off, and there were cops everywhere asking if I'd seen you, and—" He dragged a hand through his hair, making it stand up worse. "The point is, I should have been more careful. I should have—"
"You should have what?" I interrupted. "Predicted that someone would drug our drinks? That there'd be an organized kidnapping operation targeting me specifically? Alex, you were eighteen years old at a bar with your friends. You're not responsible for other people's crimes."
"But if I'd stayed sober—"
"If you'd stayed sober, you would have been drugged too, and then there'd be two of us missing." I watched him flinch at that, watched the guilt in his eyes war with the logic of what I was saying. "Listen to me. What happened wasn't your fault. The blame belongs to Lucas, Oliver, and Zoey—the people who made the choice to kidnap me. Not you."
He sank into the chair James had vacated, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. "I keep thinking about it," he said, muffled. "About what they might have done to you if Benjamin hadn't—if the police hadn't—" He looked up, and his eyes were wet. "You could have died, Rose."
I wanted to reach out, to comfort him the way I would have comforted Jimmy when he was small and frightened. But I couldn't move that way—not yet, not with my body still screaming protest at every shift—so I just held his gaze and spoke with all the firmness I could muster.
"Guilt is a luxury, Alex. It eats up your energy and solves absolutely nothing. What you can do right now—what I need you to do—is sleep, get your head straight, and then help me figure out exactly what happened at that bar." I paused, let that sink in. "Because someone drugged those drinks, and I want to know who."
Something shifted in his expression—the raw self-flagellation giving way to something harder, more focused. "You think it was planned?"
"I think it's too convenient to be random." I leaned back against the pillows, suddenly aware of how bone-tired I was. "But we'll deal with that later. Right now, you look like you're about to pass out, and I don't need another Sullivan in a hospital bed."
He let out a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob. "You're the one in the hospital bed."
"Which is exactly why I don't need you to be a bodyguard." I managed a faint smile. "What I need is a friend who'll help me order a second whiskey the next time I'm stupid enough to try."
He stared at me for a second, then gave a choked laugh and scrubbed at his eyes. "You're insane."
"Probably." The exhaustion was really setting in now, pulling at my eyelids. "Now get out of here before I fall asleep mid-sentence."
He stood, hesitated, then bent and hugged me—carefully, mindful of the IV and bandages, but firm enough that I felt the desperate relief in it. "I'm glad you're okay," he whispered.
"Me too," I whispered back.
---
James returned twenty minutes later with a breakfast tray, his color slightly better, his hands no longer trembling. He helped me sit up enough to eat—plain toast, which was all my stomach could handle—and we didn't talk about the three hours he'd spent waiting outside my room or the way his eyes kept drifting to the bandages on my wrists.
"Benjamin's surgery went well," he said quietly, setting the tray aside when I'd managed half the toast. "They had to repair some internal bleeding and reset the fractures from the car accident, plus treat the new trauma from last night. The doctor said he'll need at least three months of recovery. No strenuous activity."
I closed my eyes. Three months. Because he'd thrown himself into a fight he had no business being in, with injuries that should have had him flat on his back for weeks already. Because of me.
"I know that look," James said, and there was something almost stern in his voice. "Don't start."
"He could have died."
"He didn't." James's hand closed over mine again, warm and solid. "He made a choice, Rose. Just like you made a choice to fight back instead of waiting to be rescued. We don't get to second-guess those things."
I wanted to argue, but the weight of the night was pressing down on me, and I was so tired. "Where is he now?"
"Post-op recovery. He should be moved to a private room this afternoon." James paused. "Christopher's handling the police interviews and coordinating security for both of you. Alexander went to check on Benjamin, despite looking like he's about to collapse himself. And Jennifer is on her way here."
I opened my eyes at that. "Jennifer?"
"She insisted." There was something careful in James's expression. "She said there are things you need to know."
Before I could ask what things, the door opened again, and Jennifer walked in—impeccable as always in a charcoal pantsuit, her expression neutral but her pace just slightly quicker than usual. She nodded to James, then turned to me with something that might have been relief flickering across her face before it disappeared behind professional composure.
"Rose." She approached the bed, her heels clicking softly on the linoleum. "I'm glad you're safe. But we need to talk."
I looked at her sharp eyes, at the folder tucked under her arm, at the way James's hand tightened almost imperceptibly on mine. Whatever she'd come to say, it wasn't going to be simple.
"All right," I said quietly. "Tell me."