Page 11 of Fallen Empire (The Fallen Trilogy #2)

Millie

Fucking hospital doors and their refusal to be slammed.

I didn’t need much in that moment. Just the satisfying crack of impact, the kind that said I’m done without having to speak. But no. Soft-close, sterile, high-dollar bullshit designed to keep everything calm and quiet.

Well, I wasn’t calm. And I sure as hell wasn’t quiet.

I wasn’t a control freak, not really.

But after the last few weeks? After everything we’d been through?

I was tired. Tired of being told what I did and didn’t need. What I was or wasn’t going to do. I wasn’t a child. And Jaxson Westbrook wasn’t my father.

Fucking asshole.

Okay… that wasn’t fair.

I didn’t mean that. Not really.

I didn’t mean to say half the things I’d just thrown at him like weapons I couldn’t take back. But apparently a decent meal had jump-started my fire again—and with it, dragged up every bit of resentment I hadn’t even realized I was still carrying.

He wasn’t wrong.

It wasn’t his fault Savannah was taken. And I knew it.

I’d seen it in his eyes. That hollowed-out guilt gnawing at him like something he didn’t think he deserved to survive. I’d watched Ben go just as still, just as wrecked, haunted by the idea that they’d failed her.

They didn’t.

They never would’ve let anything happen to her. Not if they could’ve stopped it.

Because that’s who they were. Men carved from something sharper than steel. The kind who didn’t flinch at violence because they’d been forged inside it. The kind who’d put their bodies between us and a bullet without thinking twice. The kind who didn’t just carry guilt—they became it.

Men who wore their mistakes like armor.

Who turned shame into a weapon and dared the world to come for them anyway.

And I’d used that guilt like a dagger. Aimed straight at the heart of the only people still holding me together.

What the hell was wrong with me?

I wasn’t mad at either of them. Not really.

But after everything that’s happened over the past few days, it didn’t take much to crack me open. Savannah hitting that ground. Jaxson spiraling into a version of himself I’d never seen. Whatever the hell happened between Ben and me that I hadn’t even begun to unpack. And then there was Nic.

Nic .

Wait...Why was she even here?

She usually texted Ben before dropping by, careful not to bother Jaxson unless she had something worth saying. But she’d been here when we walked in. And Ben hadn’t mentioned getting a text.

Unless she messaged while I was in the shower.

Still… something didn’t add up.

Had she been here the whole time we were gone?

And if so, why?

She didn’t hang around just to kill time. Nic moved with purpose. She showed up when something mattered. And the way she lingered just long enough for Ben to notice—for Jaxson to get twitchy—didn’t sit right with me.

Nic didn’t linger. Ever.

She didn’t stay unless there was a reason.

And the longer I thought about it... the more convinced I became that I wasn’t supposed to know what it was.

And I hated that I was just now noticing it.

Because that wasn’t like me. I noticed everything. I read a room faster than most people read text messages. That’s what made me good at my job. That’s what made me who I was.

But lately, I hadn’t felt like myself.

I’d been so wrapped up in surviving—keeping Savannah alive, keeping Jaxson from unraveling, keeping Ben at arm’s length—that I stopped paying attention to the things that didn’t scream emergency. I’d let someone like Nic slide under my radar.

The lounge was quiet, dim lighting, sterile chairs, the low hum of vending machines filling the silence like white noise meant to soothe frayed nerves. But nothing about this place soothed me.

I stepped inside, heading straight for the machine against the far wall. My throat was dry, my head pounding, and I just needed something cold, something carbonated, something to anchor me for one damn second.

My hand reached for my purse, only to grab nothing but air.

Shit.

I’d left it. Right by the sofa in Savannah’s room.

“Of course I did,” I muttered under my breath, leaning forward until my forehead thudded against the cool glass of the machine. My fist hit the side of it with a dull smack, as if somehow, it might magically spit out a Coke out of pity.

It didn’t.

Behind me, a low throat-clear cut through the quiet.

“Forgot to grab cash?” a man said, his voice smooth. Calm. Like he belonged here.

I stiffened.

He was seated just a few chairs away. How had I not noticed him when I walked in?

I turned to face him. He didn’t look like someone who belonged in a hospital waiting room.

Not in the jeans that probably cost more than most people’s rent or the fitted black jacket resting against his broad shoulders.

His hair was cleanly styled, but not overly neat.

Everything about him was... intentional. Effortlessly sharp.

His face, though. I didn’t recognize it. Not really.

But something about him made my skin tighten.

He offered a polite smile. “I hate when that happens.”

“Yeah,” I said cautiously, my eyes still sizing him up. “It’s fine. The room’s just down the hall.”

I turned to leave.

“Here,” he said, holding out three crisp one-dollar bills.

“No need to walk all the way back. We’re all here for a reason. I just hope yours isn’t as bad as mine.”

I hesitated, eyeing the bills. His fingers were steady. His tone? Conversational. Casual. But there was something underneath it. Something colder.

I forced a smile. “Depends on your definition of bad.”

It was my nerves—still raw, still frayed—that had me on edge. I was judging this man solely off everything that had transpired over the last few days. The chaos. The fear. The blood.

I needed to chill.

I took the bills from his outstretched hand, our fingers brushing briefly.

“Thank you,” I said, barely above a whisper. “I can bring you back some cash.”

He shook his head lightly as I turned toward the vending machine. “No worries,” he replied, that easy voice still low. “It’s just a few dollars.”

By the time the third bill slipped into the slot and disappeared, my throat was screaming for relief, like a plant on the verge of death, parched and limp and reaching for any drop of water.

I jabbed the Coke button and waited for the machine to rumble.

While I stood there, I glanced back at him.

He was still in the same position, eyes cast downward, like he was reliving something. Something that weighed heavy. Something personal.

His expression was unreadable. Not cold, but... detached.

When the bottle dropped, I grabbed it without thinking and took the seat a few spots away from him. Close enough to not be rude. Far enough to not invite anything else.

I cracked the cap and took a long pull. Cool, sharp, and exactly what I needed.

“My best friend is here,” I said suddenly.

His eyes lifted. There was no smirk. No judgment. Just a simple, “I’m sorry to hear that.”

We were on the critical care floor. He didn’t ask what happened. Didn’t need to. Everyone here was on the edge of something.

“They’re extubating her right now,” I added, the words slipping out before I could stop them.

I didn’t know why I said it. Maybe because saying it aloud made it feel more real. More possible. Like speaking it into the air meant hope could finally stick to something solid.

He nodded, his eyes steady on mine now.

“Hey,” he said gently, “that’s good news, yeah?”

I nodded. “Yeah. It is. We’re hopeful she can go home soon.”

“It sounds like she’s a fighter. Good to hear.”

I took another drink, the fizz biting at my tongue as I stared at the wall across from us. Something in my chest loosened. Just a fraction. Just enough to keep breathing.

“And the person you’re here for?” I asked, glancing back at him.

His jaw tightened. He didn’t look at me when he answered.

“Even if she makes it through this time... it won’t be long before she’s gone.”

The words landed like a thud between us.

No sugarcoating. No hesitation. Just raw truth wrapped in something darker.

I swallowed. “I’m sorry.”

He finally looked at me then, a small, almost sad smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.

“Me too.”

His eyes didn’t move from mine. Not right away.

It wasn’t flirty. It wasn’t aggressive, but it lingered a second too long.

A beat past appropriate.

Like he was studying me. Memorizing. Clocking my reactions with quiet precision.

I glanced away, suddenly unsure of where to look.

“I hope she’s comfortable,” I offered, trying to fill the silence with something softer. Something human.

His expression didn’t change. “She is. She’s always been stubborn. Even now.”

A small chuckle left his lips. Empty of humor, but not of weight.

I forced a small smile, polite but guarded.

He turned toward me slightly, elbows resting on his knees, fingers steepled together.

“What’s your friend’s name?”

The question caught me off guard. Not the words themselves—but the way he asked them.

Like he already knew.

My stomach tensed.

“S-Savannah,” I said slowly, watching his face.

Nothing flickered. No twitch. No shift. Just that same calm, steady interest.

“She’s lucky to have someone like you,” he said. “People don’t always get second chances. Not in this world. I’m sure she’s grateful you’re here.”

I nodded, unsure why a chill was crawling up the back of my neck.

Something about the way he said it…

Too practiced. Too knowing.

His phone pinged. He looked down and read the screen.

He stood. Held out his hand to me. I returned the gesture. “Nice to meet you…” he trailed, waiting for me to respond.

“Millicent.”

“Nice to meet you Millicent. I hope your friend makes it out.” Without another word, he turned and headed out the door. Like he was never there to begin with.

Just a few moments later, Ben stepped through the opening, guarded. “Who was that?”

“I don’t know. His wife is here. He doesn’t think she’ll make it.”