“Don’t bother.” She ended the call.
I pulled out my phone and texted our HR director.
Need you to document a call I just received from Phoibe Stavrou. Will send details within the hour. Will need to discuss her continued employment.
The response came quickly.
Understood. Standing by.
Setting the phone down, I stared at the blank screen where Phoibe’s face had been moments before. This wasn’t the first time she’d tested boundaries, but it was the most blatant.
It was time to find a new assistant, and preferably someone I hadn’t slept with and who had no interest in doing so.
My phone rang. It was my mother.
I answered immediately. “Mother, is everything—?”
“Ari.” Her voice was tight. “Tia is on her way to America. Kandi phoned her from the hospital. Dede passed out at the mall and they took her to Montrose General—”
I was on my feet and out the door before she could finish.
Less than ten minutes later, I strode through the main doors of the hospital, my heart hammering against my ribs with unwelcome force.
I couldn’t remember when I’d last felt such raw terror. My woman. My babies. This could not be happening again. I refused to entertain the possibility.
At the nurses’ station, I demanded information until the woman behind the counter held up her hand, asking if I needed a translator. Only then did I realize I’d been speaking Greek. I collected myself, drew a breath, and provided Dede’s name.
“Are you a relative?” she inquired.
“No, however—”
“I’m sorry. I can only release information on a patient to immediate family.”
“I am the father of her children, yes,” I stated. “I need to know—”
“Those are the rules.” Her expression remained unyielding as she gave me a pointed look, clearly expecting me to retreat from her space.
Unlikely.
She enunciated each word slowly, as if I were dense. “I cannot discuss Ms. White’s condition.”
The formality of “Ms. White” grated on me. As if I were irrelevant. I considered my options. How quickly could I get past the nurses’ station and search the ward myself? How many security guards would it take to restrain me? More than three, certainly.
Before I could test this theory, Kandi emerged from a waiting area. “You’re here! How did you find out? I called Tia because I didn’t know how to reach you.”
“How is she?” I demanded. “What happened? The babies—”
“She had a dizzy spell while shopping and passed out. I called an ambulance.”
Insufficient. I needed details, facts, and certainty. This helplessness was foreign to me. I was accustomed to command, to immediate answers, not begging for scraps of information.
I gave Kandi my number. While she saved it, a nurse approached. “Miss? Your friend is asking for you.”
Another wave of frustration crashed over me. Kandi had access while I—
“Come with me,” she said, tilting her head toward the wards.
I followed Kandi through the corridors. The hospital’s distinct scent brought unwelcome memories of Lydia’s final days. Each step forward felt weighted.
