Page 77 of Downfall

“Don’t,” I sneer. “Don’t tell me what to fucking do right now.”

He nods and Allie leans her head against his shoulder. That simple act shouldn’t make me want to destroy the rest of this waiting room, but it’s the last position Skylar and I were in before they came and got her.

“Maybe you should take a break? Grab a coffee?” Ashton suggests, to which I pin him with a look that communicates exactly where he can shove his coffee. I’m about to sit back down on the floor when Emory comes in with an older man wearing scrubs and a surgical cap. I try to get a read on her face, but it’s completely stoic.

“Declan Astor?” the man asks. I walk forward, crowding his space and forcing him to take a step back. “You’re Skylar’s husband?”

“Yes.”

He nods, looking around the room, his faded blue eyes landing on Ashton and Allie. “I’m Dr. Andover. And these are…friends, I assume?”

“Family,” I correct him. “They’re family.”

“I see. So I have your consent to share medical details with them in the room?”

“Yes. Just fucking tell me. Is she okay?”

He looks to Emory, who gives a slight, almost imperceptible nod.

“Mr. Astor, your wife sustained significant internal injuries from the collision. She suffered from a laceration to her spleen as well as a tear in one of the major blood vessels in her abdomen. She lost a lot of blood, and when she arrived, she was in shock due to the blood loss.” I don’t miss the way he’s saying everything in the past tense, which could be because they fixed everything or because they couldn’t. Either way, I want to clock this guy in his round fucking face. “We performed emergency surgery,” he continues. “We were able to remove the damaged spleen and repair the blood vessel, but she required several blood transfusions⁠—”

“Can I see her?” I cut in, and Dr. Andover opens his mouth to answer, but Emory beats him to it.

“She’s in the ICU, but she’s allowed one visitor at a time. I can take you to see her.”

This earns her a glare from the doctor. Clearly, she’s overstepping, and I couldn’t love her more for it.

“Mr. Astor,” he calls as I start to follow Emory. “Your wife has not regained consciousness. Part of that is the anesthesia, but it’s also the trauma. Her body has been through⁠—”

I turn around swiftly, stepping toward the man. “What does that mean?”

His eyes soften, the wrinkles around them flattening. “It means she’s fighting, but you should be prepared for the possibility that she might not wake up.”

I look him up and down. “Thank you for everything you’ve done, but you clearly don’t know my wife.” With that, I turn around and follow Emory down the hallway and into the elevator that leads to the intensive care unit.

“Declan,” Emory says as we step out onto the floor. “She’s not going to look like herself. She’s still intubated from surgery, so she’s going to have a tube in her mouth.”

I tip my head in her direction, and she leads me down the hallway until we get to her room. The moment she opens the door, the shrill scent of antiseptic invades my nostrils. The room is dark except for the glowing screens of the monitors which beep rhythmically, and just as Emory warned, there’s a tube taped to Skylar’s mouth. IV lines snake up from both of her hands as clear fluid drips from the bags hanging above her. There’s a bandage on her head from where she was bleeding from her temple. Her red hair is splayed out on the crisp white pillow, and even though she’s pale from the blood loss, she’s still the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on.

I drag a chair over to the side of her bed, not wanting to jostle her by sitting directly on it. Even after a car accident and being in surgery for hours, there’s a faint scent of green apple that clings to her. Her hand is warm when I pick it up, brushing it against my cheek. That’s a good sign, right? She’s warm. Alive. Blood is coursing through her veins. The beeping on the monitor to my right shows her vitals are normal. Her heart is beating.

She’s still here with me.

So why, when I look at her, does my own heart break in half?

That’s when I notice her ring is gone.

“She had a lot of swelling,” Emory says. “We had to cut it off. I’m so sorry.”

I don’t say anything.

“But I did convince them to let me save this,” she continues, picking up a plastic baggie from the counter and handing it to me. It’s Skylar’s locket. The one her dad gave her. The one I was so jealous of because I thought it was from another man.

“Thank you,” I manage to grit out.

“I’ll give you some time alone,” Emory says from across the room. The door clicks closed. Then it’s just the two of us again, like in the car.

“I’m so sorry, Firefly,” I tell her. “So fucking sorry.”