A complex storm of emotions crashes over me.
First, relief—the nightmare is over, the man who broke me is really gone into the darkness he came from. For real, this time.
Then, awe and love and gratitude, all at the same time. Dorian faced him and made him pay for what he did to me. He risked his life for me.
And finally, a white-hot fury.
Andy hurtDorian. Even in his defeat, that parasite managed to strike the man I love. The injustice of it burns the tears out of my eyes.
* * *
Ten minutes later, a surgeon enters the waiting room. Dr. Bakkal. She looks tired but composed.
I step forward before she can speak. "I'm Della Toma, his partner. Please, tell me everything."
Dr. Bakkal looks at me, assessing my state, and seems to decide I can handle the truth.
"Mr. Marshall sustained a gunshot wound to the lower right abdomen," she begins, her tone clinical but kind. "The bullet caused significant damage to the muscle wall and nicked the liver, which resulted in massive blood loss. We are exceptionally lucky; the liver "nick" was highly superficial. The bullet trajectorymissedthe intestines, kidneys, and major arteries. That was our biggest challenge—keeping his pressure up.”
I nod, my hand unconsciously drifting to the sapphire necklace, grounding myself.
"We’ve repaired the damage," she continues. "However, his body has gone through immense trauma. We have placed him in a medically induced coma to lower his metabolic demand. Essentially, we need him to sleep so he can heal without fighting the ventilator."
"The ventilator?" I ask, the word tasting like ash.
"Yes. He needs assistance breathing right now. The next forty-eight hours are critical. We are monitoring for two main threats: sepsis from the abdominal wound and secondary hemorrhage."
She pauses, softening her expression. "But he is young, and he is incredibly strong. His heart rate is stable. The most optimistic scenario is that we wake him up in two days. From there, he will look at a week or two in the hospital, and a few months for full physical recovery."
"And the worst scenario?" I ask, because I need to know the enemy.
"The worst is infection or organ failure," she says honestly. "But we are doing everything to prevent that. He’s a fighter, Ms. Toma. Now, he just needs time."
"Thank you," I whisper.
Time.
The irony hits me like a physical blow. The last time we faced each other, I was the one asking for time. I demanded space to heal myself.
Now, the Universe has flipped the hourglass. He is the one who needs time. He is the one who needs to go away—into the dark, into the sleep—to heal.
I understand now the agony he must have felt waiting for me. It is a collision of impossible feelings: the desperate need to hold the person you love, warring with the terrified knowledge that you must let them go so they can survive.
I made him wait for my heart. Now, I will wait for his life.
"You can see him in a few minutes," she adds. "He will be taken to the private suite. But just one visitor. He needs rest."
“I can stay with him, Della,“ David says, his voice heavy with exhaustion. “You can go with Flor; the guest room is ready. You must be tired after the flight.”
“I am tired, but I am not leaving his side.” I reply, meeting David’s eyes. “You should go home, David. Both of you. You’ve been here for very long hours and need to rest.”
“Are you sure, Della?” Flor asks, stepping forward and gently taking my hand. “We can stay, if you need us.”
“I’ll be fine. Don’t worry.”
“His suite is designed for overnight stays, ma'am,” Dr. Bakkal interjects quietly. “There’s a small cot and bathroom. You will be able to stay.”
“See? You go rest. I’ll stay.”
