Dani nodded slowly. “Call me if or when you need me.”
Sloane swallowed hard, her throat tight with panic, and slipped past Dani into the corridor. Her studio felt suffocating now, every corner filled with memories of Catherine’s laugh, her hesitant warmth, the gentle vulnerability she’d allowed Sloane to glimpse. Each step away from her sanctuary tightened the knot of dread in her chest.
She moved quickly down the street toward her car, barely noticing her surroundings. Faces blurred, sounds muffled, and her pulse pounded violently. The image of Catherine—controlled, guarded, unbreakable—shattered by some horrific accident made her stomach twist painfully.
As she drove, her hands gripped the steering wheel tightly, her knuckles pale with tension. The city flew past, lights and buildings indistinct smears. Her thoughts raced chaotically, desperation clawing at her mind.
She whispered to herself, voice trembling, “You can’t leave me like this. We’re not finished yet. Please don’t let this be the end.”
Sloane didn’t pray often, but in that moment, she found herself bargaining fiercely with the universe, offering anything, everything, just to see Catherine safe again.
She parked hastily at the hospital, barely shutting the engine off before she was out of the car, rushing toward the sterile brightness of Harrington Memorial’s emergency entrance. Her breath caught sharply, panic seizing her lungs as automatic doors slid open, welcoming her into uncertainty.
Stepping through the hospital doors felt like entering a dream. Everything moved too slowly and too quickly at once, and the sterile scent of antiseptic mingled with an overwhelming sense of dread. Sloane’s heartbeat echoed loudly in her ears, drowning out the hum of hospital machinery and whispered conversations as she moved toward the waiting room. Shescanned the bustling space desperately, searching for familiar faces.
Her eyes landed first on Olivia, standing quietly near the entrance, her arms wrapped around herself. Olivia spotted Sloane immediately and stepped forward, her usually calm face marred by deep worry. Her gentle expression softened further, offering a sympathetic, almost apologetic look.
“Sloane,” Olivia said softly, reaching out to lightly touch her arm. “I’m glad you came. She’s out of surgery and stable for now, but…” Olivia’s voice faltered slightly, hesitation bleeding through her careful composure. “She hasn’t woken up yet.”
Sloane’s breath caught in her throat, relief warring violently with lingering terror. Stable was good, but unconscious… That unknown state of waiting felt even more frightening. She drew in a shaky breath, gripping Olivia’s hand tightly for a brief moment, grounding herself.
“Can I see her?” Sloane asked quietly, her voice edged with a raw desperation that surprised even herself.
Olivia hesitated briefly, glancing back toward the corner of the room. Sloane followed her gaze, immediately noticing Roz sitting rigidly, her eyes dark with exhaustion, staring blankly at her hands. Roz glanced up, catching Sloane’s gaze. Her expression was unreadable at first, then softened incrementally—acknowledgment, gratitude, and caution all rolled into a single, silent nod.
Before Olivia could respond, another figure stepped forward from behind Roz—Evelyn Harrington, composed and intimidating, every bit the matriarch even in crisis. Evelyn’s eyes narrowed slightly as she assessed Sloane with sharp scrutiny, her lips thinning into a barely concealed frown.
“What exactly are you doing here?” Evelyn’s voice was cold, restrained fury simmering beneath her precise words.
Olivia shifted uncomfortably, while Roz rose abruptly, placing herself subtly between Evelyn and Sloane.
“Mother,” Roz began firmly, “this isn’t the time.”
Evelyn’s gaze flicked sharply toward her daughter, a battle of silent wills hanging heavy in the air before Evelyn relented, retreating slightly but never releasing her hold on the room. She turned away dismissively, murmuring something inaudible to Roz, leaving the three women in tense silence.
Roz approached Sloane, placing a reassuring hand briefly on her shoulder, her touch firm but gentle. “Come with me,” Roz murmured softly. “I’ll take you back. Just…prepare yourself. She’s stable but—” Roz’s voice broke slightly, but she quickly composed herself. “She’s fragile, Sloane. It’s…not something we’re used to.”
“I understand,” Sloane whispered, following Roz down the long, harshly lit corridor. Each step felt heavier than the last, the air growing thicker with every footfall.
Roz stopped outside a closed door, her fingers hesitating momentarily over the handle. She turned to Sloane, her gaze serious and protective. “She’s lucky, you know. It could’ve been much worse.”
Sloane nodded slowly, unable to speak past the lump in her throat. Roz gave her one last lingering glance, filled with a silent plea: take care of her. Then she pushed open the door, allowing Sloane into the room where Catherine lay motionless.
The sight of Catherine—usually so strong, vibrant, and fiercely independent—lying pale and still in a hospital bed hit Sloane like a physical blow. Tubes and wires surrounded her, machines softly beeping, tracking the fragile pulse that held Catherine suspended between life and death.
Sloane approached slowly, legs trembling beneath her and her vision blurred by tears that she blinked back stubbornly.She sank into the chair beside the bed, reaching hesitantly for Catherine’s limp hand, cradling it gently in both of her own.
“Hey,” Sloane whispered, her voice cracking painfully. “I’m here now. You can’t stay away too long, okay?”
Her words hung in the quiet room, echoing softly against the sterile walls. Catherine remained silent and unmoving. Sloane’s breath shuddered as she tightened her grip slightly, willing strength into Catherine’s still form.
“You have to wake up,” Sloane urged softly, her voice shaking with quiet desperation. “We have so much left unsaid. So many fights to finish.” She attempted a weak smile, even though Catherine couldn’t see it. “I need you to argue with me again, Catherine. I need you to fight.”
Sloane’s voice dropped to a whisper, raw emotion pouring freely, unchecked. “You always run when things get real. But you can’t run from this. I won’t let you.”
She sat back, holding Catherine’s hand tightly, watching the steady rhythm of her breathing, silently praying for any sign that Catherine heard her plea. The hospital room, normally a place of healing and hope, felt unbearably fragile, suspended on the brink between possibility and loss.
Sloane’s resolve hardened, determination sharpening her pain into fierce conviction. Catherine had always guarded her vulnerability and kept a safe distance, but now, laid bare by this tragedy, she needed someone to anchor her, to remind her that strength was not in isolation but in allowing oneself to be seen, even when it hurt.
