"Where is she?" I demand.
"Surgery," he says. "They're working on her now. Internal bleeding."
The world tilts beneath my feet.
The hospital room buzzes with activity around me. A nurse dabs some antiseptic on my forehead while a doctor examines my shoulder. The sharp, clinical scent of disinfectant fills my nostrils, but all I can focus on is the clock on the wall marking each minute my sister remains in surgery.
"Dislocated shoulder, three bruised ribs, multiple lacerations," the doctor lists clinically. "We need to run some scans, check for internal?—"
"Just fix what's necessary," I cut him off. "Tape the ribs, set the shoulder. No scans."
"Mr. Feretti, with blunt force trauma like this?—"
My eyes find his. "My sister is fighting for her life in surgery. I'm not leaving this floor."
He hesitates but nods. "We'll need to reduce the shoulder immediately."
I grit my teeth as they position me. The sharp crack and blinding pain that follows when they snap myshoulder back into place barely registers against the weight crushing my chest.
The nurses finish wrapping my ribs while Zoe stands in the corner, her face pale, arms wrapped around herself. Once the staff leaves, she approaches, her green eyes brimming with tears.
"I'm sorry," she whispers, her voice cracking. "I should have told you that day—when you shared about Bianca. I was confused, scared." She runs a hand through her hair. "I couldn't risk talking to you without being sure about what happened."
I reach for her hand with my good arm, pulling her closer.
"We both made mistakes." My voice sounds raw, unfamiliar. "I should have listened. Should have given you a chance to explain."
A tear slips down her cheek. "When I saw you in that warehouse—" Her voice breaks. "I thought I'd lost you before I had the chance to tell you the truth."
I take her chin gently between my fingers, tilting her face up to mine. For a moment, we just breathe, sharing the same air, acknowledging everything we nearly lost.
Then I bring my lips to hers—not with the passion or possession of before, but with something deeper. Something that feels like forgiveness, like a beginning.
When we break apart, I rest my forehead against hers.
"What Byron said—about the baby..." I can barely form the words. "Is it true?"
Zoe's eyes hold mine, her face etched with emotions I'm still learning to read. She swallows hard before answering my question about the pregnancy.
"Yes." Her voice is barely above a whisper. "I found out when I was stayingwith Scarlett."
A thousand questions flood my mind, but one rises above the rest. "Why didn't you tell me?" I keep my voice soft, though the effort costs me.
She shakes her head, fingers twisting nervously together. "I was going to tell you about my father, about Byron's lies. I wasn't planning to mention the baby."
The admission stings more than I expect. "You weren't going to tell me about my own child?"
"I couldn't use a pregnancy to make you listen to me." Her green eyes meet mine, fierce despite the tears threatening to spill. "You deserved to hear the truth about that night because it was the truth—not because I was carrying your child. I wanted you to believe me for me, not because of the baby."
"You could have used it," I say, my thumb brushing her cheek. "Most would have."
"I'm not most people." A ghost of a smile touches her lips. "And I couldn't start a family based on manipulation. We've both had enough of that to last a lifetime."
My hand drifts down to rest on her stomach, and though it's far too early to feel anything, the knowledge that my child grows beneath my palm sends a surge of fierce protectiveness through me.
"A baby," I murmur, still trying to process it all. "Our baby."
Zoe places her hand over mine, her touch gentle. "I was terrified when I found out. Not of being a mother, but of bringing a child into all this chaos."
