Page 98 of Sexting the Single Pakhan

I end the call without waiting for him to finish.

Igor stands. “What’s going on?”

“Laurel’s at the hospital.” I grab my jacket off the back of the chair, already moving toward the door.

“You want me to come with you?”

“No.” I don’t slow down. “Stay here. Finalize the details for the next meeting with the Albanians. Make sure everything is locked down.”

He nods. “Keep me posted.”

I’m already halfway down the hall. My thumb keeps refreshing the tracker app like it’s going to tell me something new. The dot hasn’t moved. She’s still inside.

My mind is racing faster than my feet. Is she hurt? Sick? Did something happen to her? Is this because of me?

I drive like a man possessed, weaving through traffic, blowing reds, anything to get to St. Luke’s faster. My thumb jabs Laurel’s name for the third time in as many minutes. Straight to voicemail again.

The last week has been hell.

Ever since she saw me with Lisa outside the office building, I’ve had to stay away. Completely. I had to make it look real to Marco, convince him Laurel was out of the picture, that she meant nothing, that I’d moved on to his niece without hesitation.

One wrong move, one slip that showed I still cared, and he’d have put a target on her back. So I stayed silent and let her think the worst.

It was the hardest fucking thing I’ve ever done.

Knowing she believed I’d cheated. Knowing she thought I’d thrown her away. Knowing she was hurting and I couldn’t reach out, couldn’t hold her, couldn’t tell her it was all a lie to protect her. It tore me apart.

But it’s over now.

Marco’s done. Dismantled. Lisa and her girlfriend are out of the country, safe. The Albanians have what they need. The territory is mine. The game is finished.

Now I can go back to her. But first, I need to know why the hell she’s at the hospital.

I screech into the parking garage, throw the car into the first open spot, slam the door, and run. The tracker says she’s still inside. My boots pound the pavement, then the polished lobby floor. I scan the reception area, rows of chairs, sick people, crying kids, and there she is.

Sitting alone in the corner, hands clasped tight in her lap, face pale, eyes distant. Relief hits me so hard I almost stagger.

I rush over, drop to a crouch in front of her chair, hands immediately framing her face, thumbs brushing her cheeks.

“Laurel, baby are you okay? What happened? Are you hurt?”

She startles, eyes widening when she sees me. For a second she just stares, like she can’t believe I’m real. Then her expression shutters.

“What are you doing here?” she asks, voice small but edged.

I scan her quickly, arms, legs, face, no visible injuries. But she’s pale.

“Baby, what are you doing here? Are you sick?”

Before she can answer, a nurse steps up holding a clipboard, smiling politely.

“Ms. Harper? The doctor will see you now.”

I stand slowly, every muscle locked.

The nurse glances between us, smile widening. “Is this the father?”

I freeze.