The floor tilts beneath me.
"We need you to come in. Mr. Ramirez has been admitted following an assault. He's sustained injuries and—"
The room spins around me, walls closing in as bile rises sharp and acrid in my throat. My legs feel like they might give out right here on Julian’s entrance floor. Every worst-case scenario I've ever imagined—every dark possibility I've pushed away in the dead of night—is crashing down on me all at once, suffocating me. This isn't just a nightmare. This is the nightmare, the one that's been lurking in the shadows since the moment Daniel's mask slipped, the one I've been too terrified to name out loud.
"What kind of injuries? Is he okay? Is he—"
"I can't give you more information over the phone. Please come to the emergency department as soon as possible."
The line goes dead.
I'm already running.
The drive is a blur of tears and red lights and my hands white-knuckling the steering wheel. Every breath feels like glass scraping my lungs.
Daniel did this. I know he did. He went after Julian—beautiful, gentle Julian, who never hurt anyone, who only tried to protect me.
This is my fault. All of it.
Images flash through my mind, each one worse than the last. Julian bleeding. Unconscious. His face smashed, unrecognizable. His skull cracked open like—
"Stop it. Stop."
But I can't. The thoughts spiral faster, darker, pulling me under.
I screech into the hospital parking lot, abandon my car in a spot that might not even be a spot, and sprint through the automatic doors.
"Julian Ramirez.” My voice cracks. "Where is he? I got a call—"
The receptionist types something, maddeningly slow. "He's being treated. You'll need to wait—"
"I need to see him. Right now."
"Ma'am, I understand, but—"
"You don't understand anything!" My voice echoes off the sterile walls. "Where is he?"
She blinks at me, her expression shifting from professional to alarmed. "I'll page the doctor. Please have a seat."
"I don't want to sit. I want to see—"
The room spins.
My knees buckle.
I hit the floor hard, the cold tile slamming against my palms, and everything goes white.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Hands grip my shoulders, steadying me before I completely collapse.
"Easy now. I've got you."
I blink up at a woman in scrubs—middle-aged, kind eyes, short graying hair tucked behind her ears.
"Come on, honey. Let's get you sitting down."
She guides me to a chair in the waiting area, her grip firm but gentle. I'm shaking so hard my teeth chatter.
