Page 51 of Holding On

“What did you find when you got on scene, Thor?” My voice is monotone and straight to the point. My Ice Man façade is struggling to take over so I can function and not freak the fuck out right now.

“Miss Sinclair was secure in the front seat. The front end of the car was destroyed by the impact, and glass and debris surrounded the vehicle. Smoke was coming from the vehicle, and I wasn’t sure if there was a risk of explosion, so I immediately checked the passengers, starting with Miss Sinclair. She was unconscious but her pulse was strong, sir.”

“And the others?” Wells asks.

“Miss Skye was still in the backseat, despite not wearing a seatbelt, but slumped over at an unnatural angle. She had a pulse but it was faint. And the driver was deceased upon impact, I’m assuming.”

“He didn’t have a pulse? Did you check?”

“I did check, sir. He did not have a pulse. He was still in the car but appeared to have not worn a seatbelt either. The driver was pinned tightly under the steering wheel and collapsed dashboard, but there was a small trail of blood from his nose, and his eyes were glazed over but open, sir. There were no life-saving measures to perform that would have been able to help him.”

“Then what happened?”

“We were about to pull them out of the car in case of fire risk when the EMTs arrived. They stabilized Miss Sinclair’s neck with a cervical collar and transported her via backboard to the ambulance. Miss Skye was also stabilized and transported to the ER as well. I have one of my teammates with Miss Skye, and I am outside the treatment bay where Miss Sinclair is being assessed by a team of medical professionals.”

“We’ll be boarding the jet as soon as possible and flying in. I need to call … I don’t even fucking know who to call, Jack.” Wells is in complete shock.

“I’ll call Daphne,” I tell him as I grab his shoulder.

“Sir, with all due respect, I already sent Daphne a text while we were en route to the hospital. She should be arriving momentarily. With you and Mr. Sinclair in London, I followed protocol of emergency contacts.”

“Thanks, Thor. That was the right call. Please tell Daphne to call us as soon as she hears anything about Tinsley or Fiona.”

“Yes, sir. And if I hear any updates before her arrival, I will call you immediately.”

We disconnect from Thor as the silence hangs heavily in the room.

“She has to be okay, Jack. I … we should’ve gotten her out of that fucking contract with Roman Cash. I have to get to her, Jack,” Wells rambles while blinking away tears.

“I know, man. We both need to get to her, and she needs both of us. Go get your stuff. I’ll ring Jett and get things in motion. Go pack, don’t go on that fucking gossip site again, and let’s take this one step at a time and only make decisions on what we know, alright?”

Wells nods before he brings a fist to his mouth as a sob escapes him. I’ve never heard him make that noise in the twenty-four years we have been friends. I pull him into a hug, allowing him to break for a moment.

“You can fully break later, but right now, she needs us, Wells. Okay? We have to get to her.” He nods and sniffs as he wipes away his tears.

“Right. Yeah, we do. Okay, I’ll meet you…” He looks around the room.

“Go get your stuff and come back here. We will leave together.” I clap him on the back and he nods before I call Jett, who immediately springs into action.

Less than ten minutes later, we’re loading into an SUV in front of the hotel. When I hear the paparazzi’s questions, it dawns on me that they’ve been camped out here waiting for Wells and me, although I don’t know how they knew we were staying here. But I don’t care—all I care about is getting to Tinsley’s side as fast as possible.

I can’t stop bouncing my knee as I stare at my cell phone sitting on the table in front of me. It’s been lighting up constantly from texts and calls, but there are only a few people I am interested in talking to or hearing from right now.

Her name pops up on my cell phone and I tap my screen as fast as possible to connect the call on speaker. When we spoke to her just before taking off from London, her updates had been a mix of okay, bad, and terrible news.

“What do you know?” I don’t waste my breath or her time with pleasantries.

“Is Wells with you?” Daphne Cromwell asks as the background noise of wherever she is fades away. Her firm is on retainer with our company and she was my first call en route to the airport after we heard the news.

“Yeah, I’m here.” Wells leans forward from his seat on the other side of the table, his knuckles white from gripping the armrest. Our company jet departed London two hours ago, but despite being billionaires, we can’t change the fact that it’s a seven-plus-hour flight to New York City. We’ve barely spoken to each other in the last few hours since we got the call, unless it was related to trying to find out more information about the situation.

“I wish I had better news to report, but I just got an update from her surgical team.” Daphne’s voice cracks on the last word and that’s unheard of when it comes to her typical British stiff upper lip ways. My stomach lurches because if Daphne is struggling to tell us, then it’s even worse than we initially heard.

“Just say it, Daph,” Wells says barely above a whisper.

Daphne clears her throat. “I’m sorry, I don’t really know what to tell you right now, but I don’t think she’s going to make it. It’s bad, it’s really fucking bad.”

“What are they saying?” I manage to ask.