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“Mrs. Quinn?” he asks, and she nods.

I guess they didn’t know each other, but someone warned him a board member was here. I wonder if that’s a good thing.

I also wonder if my domineering tendencies don’t come from my mom, but I file that thought to digest later and focus on the surgeon who looks too exhausted.

“Is she okay?” The words rasp my sore throat.

He steps in, the door closing behind him. My chest feels tight as he takes a cup of coffee from my mom.

Seriously, we’re going to host a party now? What the fuck? He’s been here for half a minute, and I feel like I lost several lifetimes.

“She sustained two injuries—one to her upper arm, which required surgery to repair the muscle and tendons, and a second, more superficial wound to the head.”

Yes, fucker, I know that. I squeeze the back of the chair in front of me in a white-knuckle grip.

“The head wound?” I choke out, dreading and clinging to his every word, a cold weight settling in my stomach.

He glances at the chart he’s been holding. “The bullet grazed her skull, causing laceration and concussion. Fortunately, it didn’t penetrate her brain. She did, however, sustain some trauma to the scalp and skull. We’re monitoring her closely for any signs of swelling or bleeding. As of now, she’s stable.”

I shake with pent-up anxiety, struggling to process his words. “As of now?” My voice comes out rough, barely controlled.

“Right now, the primary concern is physical recovery. She will require physiotherapy to regain full mobility of her arm. The head injury is more unpredictable. We’ll need to monitor her for neurological function once she regains consciousness.”

The knot in my chest that has been depriving me of oxygen since the first gunshot tightens. Panic rises, but I try to breathe through it.

“What does that mean?” Celeste asks.

“Emotional trauma is not uncommon in victims of violent incidents,” Freedman says. “She could develop symptoms of PTSD, flashbacks, anxiety, difficulty to process what happened.”

The words hit me right in the solar plexus, cold sweat trickling down my back. My beautiful Saar—so strong, so fierce—might wake up with her body shattered, and her mind locked in a nightmare.

Never in my life have I felt this powerless.

“What does she need now? What do we do?” Finn steps forward, his voice shaking with anger.

“She needs rest," the doctor replies, his voice steady. “We’ll keep her sedated for the next several hours to give her body and brain time to heal.”

“When can I see her?” I start toward the door before he gets a chance to answer, grinding my jaw so tightly it aches.

“I will have to insist that only one or two of you stay with her.” He looks around the room again, his gaze stern, ready to throw the group out if we protest.

“I’m her husband,” I growl.

“For fuck’s sake. It’s not a real marriage,” Finn snaps.

Somewhere behind me, my mom gasps.

Freedman’s eyes widen. “I’ll send a nurse here while you choose who is staying with Ms. van den Linden.”

“Mrs. Quinn. She’s my wife,” I roar at the doctor who rushes out.

“Cal and Celeste should stay with her,” Finn says. “Celeste is her best friend.”

“I’m her fucking husband, and I’m staying with her.”

Celeste groans, standing up. “I’ll stay with her, but I’m sure she would want Corm by her side.”

Finn and Cal glare at her, and then at me.