“Can’t have one without the other, firebird.”
The elevator deposits us on the third floor, where the lighting is dimmer and the atmosphere more subdued. A nurse’s station sits at the center of a circular layout, with glass-fronted rooms radiating outward like spokes on a wheel. Most of the rooms are dark, but a few glow with the blue light of monitors and machines.
The head nurse—a woman with salt-and-pepper hair pulled into a severe bun—looks up as we approach. Her gaze slides over me, dismisses Mason entirely, and lands squarely on Atticus.
“Can I help you?” she asks, voice warm in a way that makes my teeth clench.
“We’re here to see Stephanie Gerber,” Atticus says, deploying The Smile again. “Room 307?”
The nurse doesn’t even check her computer. “Of course, Mr. Sloan. Right this way.”
I exchange a look with Mason that says everything. Of course she knows who Atticus is. Of course she’s falling all over herselfto help him. Of course the rules don’t apply to someone with his level of fame and that face.
I try not to be annoyed by this. I fail spectacularly.
And then the nurse starts describing Stephanie’s condition and I forget about anything else.
Helen leads us down the corridor, her white shoes squeaking on the linoleum. “Ms. Gerber is stable, but she did experience a traumatic brain injury. Right now, we’re keeping her sedated to allow her brain time to heal. Hopefully, she won’t have to stay here in the ICU for more than a few days.”
“What exactly happened?” Mason asks, his professional mask firmly in place.
“So she’ll recover?” I ask, my voice smaller than I intended.
Helen’s expression softens slightly. “It’s too early to say for certain that she won’t have any problems down the line, but she’s young and otherwise healthy. Luckily, despite the doctor seeing some slight swelling on the MRI, there was no bleeding in the brain. She’s very lucky.”
I just stare at her, completely unable to figure out how to respond to that.
“Phoenix?” Mason’s hand touches my elbow, steadying me. “You okay?”
“Fine.” I straighten my shoulders, pushing the thought away. “Let’s go in.”
But as I step toward the threshold of the room, I freeze.
Stephanie lies motionless on the bed, surrounded by machines that beep and hum in rhythmic chorus. Tubes snake from her arms, her nose, her mouth. Her skin is waxy, pale as the sheets she’s lying on, and there’s a bruise spreading across her cheekbone like spilled ink.
She looks small. Fragile. Nothing like the sharp-tongued publicist who once made an intern cry for bringing her the wrong coffee order.
Twenty-four hours ago she was the vibrant and abrasive studio rep that I’ve come to both love and hate. Now, here she is.
This could have been any of us.
“Oh,” I say, the word barely a breath.
Mason’s hand finds the small of my back, a silent anchor. I lean into it without thinking.
“You can go in,” Helen says gently. “She won’t know you’re there, but some people find it comforting to talk to coma patients. There’s evidence they might be able to hear.”
I take a step forward, then another. The glass door slides open with a soft hiss, admitting me to the bubble of quiet broken only by the steady beep of monitors. The air smells of antiseptic and vaguely metallic in a way that makes my stomach turn.
“Hey, Steph,” I say, my voice sounding strange in the hushed room. “It’s Phoenix. And Mason and Atticus. We came to see you.”
No response. Not even a flicker of her eyelids. Just the mechanical rise and fall of her chest, controlled by the ventilator.
“The nurse says you’re doing well. That you’re going to be okay.” The lie feels necessary, a talisman against the alternative. “Everyone’s thinking about you.”
I reach for her hand, then hesitate, afraid of disturbing the IV line taped to her skin. Instead, I touch her forearm lightly, just above the hospital bracelet. Her skin is cool, dry.
Behind me, I hear Helen explaining something to Mason in a low voice. Medical terms that blur together: intracranial pressure, cerebral edema, Glasgow Coma Scale. The clinical language of catastrophe.
