Page 137 of The Devil of Downtown

“Stephanie,” he barks. “Call every hospital in the city. I want to know whether Ivy Vale has been admitted anywhere. I don’t care if it’s public or private—call all of them.”

He ends the call and finally looks at me properly.

“What happened with Sloane?” he asks. “She looked ready to tear someone apart.”

I scrub a hand down my face, exhaustion and guilt bleeding together until I can’t tell where one ends, and the other begins. “She’s furious. Because of yesterday and how I ended it. Because she thinks I didn’t protect Ivy.”

Julian doesn’t contradict me.

“I love her,” I murmur, the truth tearing loose before I can stop it. “I love her, Julian.”

He meets my gaze without hesitation. “I know.”

The word lands harder than I expect. “What do you mean, you know?”

Julian lets out a short breath, almost incredulous. “Any idiot could see you’re madly in love with her.”

“And I might never get the chance to tell her,” I croak.

Julian steps closer, his voice firm now, grounding. “Don’t go there. Not yet. That kind of thinking won’t help anyone.”

He rests a hand briefly on the edge of the desk. “Focus on what you can do. We’ll find her, and when we do, you’ll deal with everything else.”

I nod, even though my chest still feels caved in by fear.

I don’t know how long we wait. Minutes stretch into something unrecognizable until time stops meaning anything at all. It could be hours. It could be years. It feels like punishment, like the universe has decided going through it once wasn’t enough. Eventually, I stand and move to the window, like I’ll find the answer I’m looking for there.

The office is wrecked—papers scattered across the floor, a chair tipped on its side—but I barely see it. I’m standing at the window, palms pressed to the glass as if that might keep me upright, when there’s a soft knock.

Julian doesn’t tell her to come in. She steps inside anyway, headset still looped around her neck. She looks at Julian first, not me, and something in her expression makes my stomach pitch.

“I’ve confirmed an admission,” she says. “Ivy Vale. She was brought in early this morning.”

My heart stops.

Julian straightens slowly. “Where?”

“St. Catherine’s,” she replies. “ER intake after a motor vehicle collision. They won’t release condition details without next of kin consent, but—” She hesitates, just a fraction. “She’s alive.”

Alive.

The word lands like both a blow and a lifeline. My knees weaken, and I grab the edge of the desk to keep from folding in on myself. Alive doesn’t mean okay. Alive doesn’t mean awake. Alive doesn’t mean untouched.

“Thank you,” Julian says to his PA. “Keep the line open. If anything changes, I want to know immediately.”

She nods and slips out, closing the door softly behind her.

I’m already reaching for my jacket.

“Dane,” Julian says, but there’s no reprimand this time—only understanding.

“I know,” I rasp. “I’m going.”

Alive.

It’s the only thing keeping me on my feet.

I don’t remember the drive. I sit in the back, useless hands clenched into fists. Every red light is agony. Every second stolen. My phone is silent in my palm no matter how many times I refresh the screen.