She exchanges a look with someone I can't see—probably noting head trauma, skewed priorities, possible dissociation. "I... I don't know about the vehicle. The doctor will—"
"Find out," I croak. "Please. Now."
She leaves, concern etched in professional lines across her forehead.
I close my eyes and see headlines already forming behind my eyelids:
HORROR QUEEN'S NIGHTMARE CRASH. BESTSELLING AUTHOR IN DRUNKEN WRECK. MYSTERY WOMAN REDUCED TO TABLOID FODDER.
They'd been circling for weeks now. Paparazzi camped outside my building like vultures. Photos of me stumbling out of pubs at 3 AM, bottle in hand, robe flapping open because I'd forgotten trousers were a thing people wore. Videos of me screaming at shadows in the street—screaming his name, probably—going viral across every platform. "Alena Lupus Unravelling" had trended for three days straight.
Horror writer gone mad. The woman who built a career on mystery and darkness, now a public spectacle. Perfect fucking irony.
The enigma shattered. The mystique dead. Just another broken woman crying over a man who left.
The door bursts open. Lucy and Marcus. Lucy looks like she hasn't slept in days—hair wild, mascara smudged under red-rimmed eyes, still wearing yesterday's clothes like she'd run straight from wherever she'd been when she got the call. Marcus is stone-faced, jaw clenched so tight I can see the muscle jumping under his skin, but his eyes—those eyes that never lie—are terrified.
They rush to the bed.
"Jesus Christ, Alena," Lucy breathes, grabbing my good hand like I'm made of glass, like I might shatter if she gripstoo hard. Her fingers are trembling. "We thought—" Her voice breaks. She touches my cast gently, whispers, "You scared the shit out of us. We thought we lost you."
"I'm fine," I say flatly. "How's my car?"
Both of them freeze.
"What?" Lucy says.
"My car. The Mustang. How bad?"
Marcus and Lucy exchange a look. He shakes his head slowly, fist clenching and unclenching at his side—old pit fighter tell when he's trying not to explode.
"Alena—" Lucy starts gently.
"Just tell me."
Marcus sighs, the sound heavy. "Bad. Front end's destroyed. Windshield gone. Frame might be bent—"
"Might be?"
"They towed it to impound. Haven't assessed it yet."
My heart stops. The beeping on the monitor changes rhythm. "Which impound?"
"Babe—" Lucy tries.
"Which impound?"
Marcus holds up his hands. "Camden. But Alena, the cops said—"
"I need to see it."
"You can't even walk—"
"Then get me a wheelchair. I need to see my car."
Lucy sits on the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle me. "The doctors want to keep you for observation. Concussion protocol. You can't just—"
"Discharge me."
