A nurse stepped toward me. “Sir, you need to leave.”
“I’m not leaving.”
“You’re in the way.”
I had spent years making sure no one spoke to me like that. One look from me could usually change a person’s mind.
The nurse did not even flinch.
“Sir,” she said firmly, “if you care about her, step outside and let us work.”
The words struck harder than they should have.
If you care about her.
Eight months ago, I would have answered without hesitation.
Now I did not know whether I still had the right.
Two security guards appeared behind me, cautious but ready. I looked past the nurse at Emma’s motionless body.
Her hand hung over the edge of the bed.
The same hand that used to rest against my chest when she fell asleep.
The same fingers that had once traced the scar beneath my collarbone and asked me where it came from. I had lied to her then. Told her it was nothing.
She had known better but never pushed.
Emma had always waited for me to tell the truth in my own time.
I had never given her the same kindness.
“Vincent,” Brooke whispered beside me.
Her voice brought me back.
I stepped into the hallway.
The doors swung shut between Emma and me.
For several seconds, I could still hear the alarms. Then the sounds became muffled behind the thick glass.
Brooke touched my arm.
I pulled away.
Her hand remained suspended in the air before she lowered it.
“You didn’t know,” she said.
I turned slowly. “Did you?”
The color drained from her face.
“Did I what?”
“Know she was pregnant.”
Brooke looked toward the closed doors. “Of course not.”
The answer came too quickly.
I had spent most of my life studying people who lied for survival, profit, or power. Brooke had always seemed different. She lied the way other people breathed—smoothly, without visible effort.
Until now.
Now there was a slight tremor in her fingers.
“You told me we should leave,” I said.
“Because this is a hospital, and your men are already drawing attention downstairs. I thought you came here because of Daniel.”
“I came because Daniel was shot.”
“And now you’ve found Emma. I understand that this changes things.”
“Changes what?”
Her gaze sharpened. “Everything.”
The doors opened before I could answer.
A doctor hurried out while speaking to a nurse. “We have a pulse. Get her upstairs now.”
My knees almost gave way.
A pulse.
Two words, and the entire world started moving again.
They pushed Emma’s bed through the doors. Her face was nearly hidden beneath the oxygen mask. Tubes ran from both arms. The monitor beside her beeped in a weak but steady rhythm.
I stepped close enough to touch her.
A nurse blocked me.
“She’s going into emergency surgery.”
“Will she live?”
“We don’t know.”
“And the baby?”
“We don’t know that either.”
The bed disappeared around the corner.
I stood in the hallway long after they were gone.
Brooke said something behind me, but I did not hear it.
All I could think about was the look in Emma’s eyes when she saw me.
There had been pain in them.
But not surprise.
That unsettled me more than anything.
It was as if she had expected me to come eventually.
Or had been afraid that I would.
I turned to Brooke. “Go home.”
Her expression tightened. “Vincent—”
“Go.”
“We should talk.”
“We will.”
“Then let me stay.”
“No.”
She studied me for a long moment. The polished confidence she wore so well had cracked, revealing something restless underneath.
“You’re upset,” she said carefully. “You’re not thinking clearly.”
“I have never thought more clearly.”
“That woman may have been carrying your child, but it doesn’t erase what she did.”
My chest went still.
“May have been?”
Brooke blinked.
“You said ‘may have been carrying my child.’”
“I meant—”
“You understood exactly what thirty-two weeks meant.”
“Anyone could.”
“Not anyone knew when Emma and I separated.”
“I knew.”
“Did you know she was pregnant?”
“No.”
I stepped closer, lowering my voice.
“Then why are you afraid?”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
For the first time since I had known her, Brooke looked away first.
“I’m afraid of what this will do to you,” she said. “You spent months rebuilding your life after Emma betrayed you. You were finally moving forward.”
“With you.”
She met my eyes again.
“Yes.”
There it was.
Not love.
Not concern.
Possession.
Eight months earlier, I had mistaken Brooke’s loyalty for honesty. She had been there after I cut Emma out of my life. She had sat across from me while I ignored Emma’s calls. She had quietly removed every photograph from my apartment. She had told me that pain made people weak, and that weakness made them careless.
I had believed her because believing Emma’s betrayal was easier than admitting I had always been afraid she would someday see me clearly and leave.
Brooke had not created that fear.
She had simply known where to place the knife.
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” I said.
She hesitated.
Then she lifted her chin, gathered what remained of her composure, and walked away.
I watched until the elevator doors closed behind her.
Only then did I realize my hands were shaking.
An hour later, I was sitting alone in a surgical waiting room.
The furniture was too bright, the walls painted a pale blue meant to calm frightened families. A television played silently in the corner. On the screen, a smiling chef stirred something in a silver pot while subtitles explained the recipe.
Normal life.
I had forgotten what it looked like.
One of my men, Marcus, appeared in the doorway.
He had been with me for eleven years. He was broad-shouldered, quiet, and one of the few people who could tell me the truth without first measuring the consequences.
“Daniel’s stable,” he said.
