Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
"I wanted to apologize—"
"Mrs. Holt?" A nurse appeared in the doorway, her tone gentle. The squeak of her shoes broke the tension. "The doctor is on the floor. She'd like to speak with you."
The room went still. My mother's face paled.
"Of course," she said, rising.
The nurse stepped aside as a woman in a knee-length white coat entered. Clipboard tucked under her arm.
The embroidery read: Latisha Jefferson, MD—Neurology.
"Mrs. Holt." She extended her hand, scanning the rest of the room in polite acknowledgment. My mother accepted. "I'm Dr. Jefferson, and I'm overseeing your son's neurological care."
She clasped her hands in front of her. "As you know, Sebastian sustained multiple injuries.The fall resulted in a broken tibia, three broken ribs, and a hairline skull fracture. We've stabilized those." She paused, her tone shifting. "However, the overdose caused prolonged respiratory depression, which means his brain was deprived of oxygen for an extended period." She glanced at Sebastian, then back to us. "We're seeing signs of hypoxic brain injury—some swelling, and potential damage to areas that affect memory, coordination, and cognitive function. We won't know the full extent until he regains consciousness."
"What about his drug use?" my mother asked.
Dr. Jefferson's face turned sympathetic. "I understand your concerns, especially given Mr. Holt's medical history. But our primary goal right now is stabilization—managing the brain swelling and getting him off this floor."
I moved closer. My palms were damp; I pressed them against my jeans. "How long do you think that will take?"
"Hopefully a couple of weeks, but possibly a month or more." She held my stare. "Patients with higher drug tolerance often require longer recovery times. The sedatives and medications we use to manage swelling don't absorb as effectively, which means we have to move more carefully."
My mom sank into her chair, head falling into her hands. Tears slipped through her fingers, falling into her lap.
I crouched beside her, palm finding her shoulder.
"Do you think he'll die?" she asked, her voice muffled and raw.
"No," Dr. Jefferson said quietly. "I don't."
A pause. Then—
"But it will be a long road back."
I rose. Emma's hand slipped into mine. She didn't say anything. She didn't have to.
Because she wasn't going anywhere.
Chapter three
Emma
Damien took control of the room while I remained useless—unable to follow the medical language, unable to comfort Rosie the way I wanted to. If she'd been Candace, if we'd had years instead of minutes, I would have pulled her into my arms and let her fall apart there.
But I couldn't.
So instead, my gaze drifted to the man lying in the bed.
I picked apart the similarities between him and the others in the room. Both sons had Rosie's complexion, her dark hair, her coloring. But Damien and Sebastian shared a feature she didn't have—the same strong nose, slightly crooked at the bridge.
It came from him.
Their father. The one Damien hated.
Rosie's tears flowed freely once again, my presence no longer a distraction.
