The ER waiting room is as depressing as every ER waiting room I’ve ever been in. Fluorescent lights, uncomfortable plastic chairs, the smell of antiseptic and desperation with a little moaning and complaining thrown in for good measure.
Emma’s been taken back for scans. I’m left stewing in the waiting area, trying not to think about worst-case scenarios and failing miserably.
My phone buzzes.
Lee:
Heard Emma got hurt. She OK?
Me:
At the hospital. Don’t know yet.
Lee:
Need me to come?
Me:
No. I’ll update you.
I set the phone down, run my hands through my hair.
She’s been in pain for months and didn’t say a damn thing. Just kept teaching, kept smiling, kept pretending everything was fine until her body finally gave out.
Stubborn woman. And I can’t do a thing about it. Can’t force her to take care of herself. Can’t make her listen to her body instead of muscling past every warning sign.
I feel fucking powerless.
The tracker helps with the shit I can stop—bad neighborhoods, wrong cars, men who think they can take what’s mine. I can protect her from all that.
But it can’t save her from herself.
That’s the part that’s killing me. Because as much as I want to shield her from every threat, even I couldn’t have prevented this. This wasn’t danger she walked into. This was pain she refused to acknowledge. Limits she wouldn’t accept. Her body screaming at her to stop, and Emma just . . . ignoring the damn alarm.
And now she’s paying the price.
Because Emma doesn’t rest. Doesn’t admit weakness. She just keeps pushing until something breaks.
So now I’m sitting here, useless, waiting for someone else to fix what she tried to hide—even from me.
Every instinct I have is screaming to fix this. Make her slow down. Make her heal. Force her to stop hurting herself just to meet some impossible standard she thinks she owes the world.
But I’m starting to wonder if that’s even something Icando.
“Mr. Bones?”
I look up to find a doctor in scrubs, clipboard in hand. “Just Bones.”
“I’m Dr. Hines. Ms. Armstrong asked me to come talk to you.”
“How bad is it?”
“The scans show significant inflammation in the ankle joint, and we’re concerned about possible tendon damage. I’ve ordered an MRI to get a better look, but based on what I’m seeing and whatEmma’s told me about her symptoms . . .” She pauses. “This isn’t a simple strain. This is chronic overuse that’s been ignored for too long.”
My stomach drops. “What does that mean?”
“It means she’s going to need surgery. Possibly multiple surgeries depending on what the MRI shows. And even with surgery, there’s no guarantee she’ll be able to return to professional dance.”
