“Where is he?” he demanded. Then, sharper: “Where are you?”
The woman’s words came too fast, spilling into cries and fragmented pleas.
“I’ll be there soon,” he said finally, hanging up, expression wide and glassy with fear.
Panic struck me, chilling the blood in my veins.
“We need to go,” he announced, grabbing my waist and pulling me toward the door. His movements were sharp, frantic, a man running on instinct alone.
“What happened?” I pleaded, trying to match his pace, searching his face for an answer.
Our eyes met for a single heartbeat—but it was enough to tell a story. Sadness. Fear. Panic. All of it laid bare in the space between us.
“That was my mother,” he forced out, throat bobbing with effort. “My brother’s overdosed.”
The words hit like a physical blow, hollowing me out. For a second, the world tilted—music, candlelight, roses—all fading into nothing.
“Damien,” I breathed, my voice breaking on his name. Every piece of me ached for him—for the pain that had just carved itself across his features.
“They’re at Mount Sinai,” he said hoarsely, running a shaking hand through his hair as we waited for the elevator to crawl its way to our floor. “I can’t leave her alone, Emma. I can’t—” His voice cracked, panic threading through it like a wire pulled too tight.
The elevator chimed. The doors slid open.
And hand in hand, we stepped inside.
The city blurred past us in streaks of gold and gray. Horns, sirens, the endless pulse of New York—all of it distant, muffled beneath the weight of Damien’s silence.
His hands tightened on the steering wheel, knuckles pale. I wanted to reach for him, to do something, but his focus was a blade, honed and trembling. Every red light stretched for miles, every second on the clock a wound reopening.
The city blurred past the windows, streetlights smearing into ribbons of gold against the dark. Damien pulled into the hospital lot too fast, tires screeching as he swung into the first open space. He killed the engine and was out of the car before I’d even unbuckled.
I scrambled after him, heels catching on the pavement. The night air hit my bare arms—cold, sharp, sobering. Our footsteps echoed across the concrete, frantic and uneven, until we reached the sliding glass doors.
The hospital doors hissed open, spilling us into a wash of fluorescent light and antiseptic air. The world inside was colder—too bright, too white, too loud. A television blared from the corner, a child cried somewhere down the hall, and the steady beep of machines cut through it all like a metronome for disaster.
Damien didn’t hesitate. He strode straight to the front desk, voice raw but controlled. “Sebastian Holt,” he said, the name cracking slightly on the second word. “Where is he?”
The nurse—a woman in her fifties with tired eyes and a badge that readTina—looked up. Her smile faltered for half a heartbeat before she caught it, professionalism sliding back into place.
“He’s in the ICU,” she said gently, fingers already moving over the keyboard. “End of the hall, third door on the left.”
Damien nodded once, turning on his heels.
“Thank you,” I managed to say as we passed, though I wasn’t sure she heard me.
We moved fast—his hand gripping mine, knuckles white, pace relentless. Each step echoed against the sterile tile, the sound of panic made physical. The hallway stretched forever, lined with closed doors and flickering lights.
Damien reached the ICU doors and yanked hard, but they didn’t budge. A low buzz shuddered through the metal, followed by the crackle of a speaker overhead.
“Can I help you?” a voice asked—female, clipped, and weary.
He leaned into the intercom, his breath fogging the glass. “Sebastian Holt,” he said quickly. “I’m his brother.”
There was a pause—too long, too heavy. Then the line crackled again. “One moment, please.”
I could see the muscle ticking in Damien’s jaw as he waited. The silence stretched like wire.
Then the buzzer sounded, sharp and final, and the door unlocked with a mechanicalclick.
