Page 5

Chapter

Four

M iranda rushed into the ICU waiting room, her pulse pounding louder than the echo of her heels on the tile floor.

The sterile scent of disinfectant hit her first—sharp, cold, and oddly familiar.

Her mother, Gwen, sat in a chair near the corner, a tissue crushed in her hand, mascara smudged beneath her eyes.

When she saw Miranda, the tears returned, streaming silently down her cheeks.

At the far end of the room, posted like a sentinel near the ICU doors and as far from the family cluster as physically possible, stood Lucas Wainright.

His arms were folded across his chest, his expression carved from stone.

Controlled. Remote. But the moment his eyes found hers, he strode toward her, tension crackling around him like static before a storm.

“You took your time,” he said under his breath, voice low and tight, meant only for her ears.

“I came as soon as I got the message.” Her voice cracked slightly from the rush of adrenaline. “It’s rush hour, Lucas. And Savannah traffic isn’t exactly forgiving.”

His gaze raked over her—sharp, assessing. When his eyes landed on her freshly polished nails, his jaw ticked. “Glad to see you managed to finish your manicure. Priorities, right?”

The accusation hit like a slap. She immediately lifted her other hand, still half-painted. “Wrong again. You really do believe the worst of me, don’t you?”

“You haven’t given me much reason to believe otherwise.”

Her chin lifted, fire flaring behind her eyes. “Then maybe it’s time you started looking a little harder.”

“Prove me wrong,” he said, voice rough.

Before she could fire back, her mother’s wavering voice cut through the standoff. “Randi, honey…” Gwen’s fingers reached out, trembling. “I’m so scared. Your father…”

Miranda pushed past Lucas, her shoulder brushing his, electric and fleeting. She sank beside her mother and wrapped her arms around her, drawing her in close.

“Have you heard anything?” she whispered, eyes scanning the ICU door. “Has the doctor been back?”

Lucas, now leaning against the wall like he owned it, glanced up from his phone. “He came by a little while ago. Nothing new. He’s supposed to return with more information soon.”

Miranda turned her glare on him. “Isn’t this waiting area for family?”

He didn’t flinch. “I wanted to make sure your mother was okay.”

“She’s fine,” Miranda snapped. “You can go any time. Or is this a business check-in? Making sure your investment is still viable?” The last word came out like venom.

Lucas winced, just slightly, and that small crack in his composure was oddly satisfying.

“Miranda,” Gwen chastised gently. “Lucas has been kind. He even asked the doctor to give us more frequent updates. Sometimes they listen better to strong, rational men than to… well…”

“Hysterical women?” Miranda asked, incredulous.

Gwen gave her a watery smile. “I didn’t say that. But the world doesn’t always listen to us the same.”

Lucas, to Miranda’s surprise, didn’t gloat. Instead, he offered Gwen a warm, genuine smile—so gentle, so human, it threw Miranda off balance. “You had every reason to be upset. Those doctors need a crash course in bedside manner.”

“I’ll be sure to enroll you as the instructor,” Miranda muttered, bitterness curling through her voice.

“Miranda.” Her mother’s disapproval was quiet but sharp.

At that moment, Cole Hammonds strode in, the click of his Italian loafers announcing him before his voice did.

He tapped his phone screen and tucked it into his pocket.

“The office is locked down. Staff won’t talk until I release the statement.

Should buy us a little time from the vultures outside. ”

“Still no update,” Miranda said, her voice flat.

Cole’s eyes narrowed when he saw Lucas. “You’re still here?”

Lucas’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “What can I say? I’m committed. Consider me part of the furniture for now.”

“We’ve got it under control,” Cole snapped. “You can go.”

“Maybe,” Lucas said with a slow shrug. “But until someone officially tells me I’m not needed, I’m staying. I have a responsibility to this organization.”

Miranda stared at him in disbelief. “Responsibility? My father is in cardiac intensive care and you’re worried about your job description?”

Lucas’s gaze didn’t waver. “Seamus Callahan is a fighter. We both know it’ll take more than this to stop him. Meanwhile, I’ll do my part to keep the wheels turning.”

Miranda’s temper flared, and she grabbed both men by the arms, dragging them to the far end of the room. “Do you hear yourselves? My father might be dying, and you're playing boardroom chess. Just stop. Please.”

Cole’s hand came down on her shoulder in a stiff, awkward attempt at comfort. “He’ll be okay. Hell, Lucas is right about one thing—Seamus is too damn stubborn to let a heart attack take him down.”

He sent a warning glance at Lucas, daring him to push further.

The ICU doors whooshed open with a hydraulic hiss, and a doctor in blue scrubs stepped into the room, clipboard in hand. “Mrs. Callahan?”

Gwen stood, one hand braced against the chair. “Yes?”

“Your husband is stable for now. He suffered a serious cardiac episode. We’re prepping him for an angiogram to assess the damage. It’s critical we move quickly.”

Her mother’s voice trembled. “Can I see him?”

The doctor shook his head. “Not yet. Once the procedure is over, we’ll bring him to recovery and you can sit with him then.”

Gwen nodded and sank back into her chair, her composure fragile but holding. Miranda slipped beside her, placing a steadying hand on her shoulder, offering what strength she had left.

Lucas stood across the room, watching. Not moving. Not speaking. Just there—solid, unreadable, strangely comforting despite the firestorm between them.

Miranda met his eyes across the distance. He didn’t look away.

And somehow, even though she hated him for being right, and for being here, and for everything, part of her was glad he hadn’t left.

She sat straighter, squared her shoulders. The war might still be ahead, but for now, they waited.

Together.

T he next couple of hours were the slowest, most excruciating of Miranda’s life.

The ICU waiting room had clearly been designed by someone who thought warm earth tones, padded chairs, and the faint hum of a wall-mounted smart TV could soften the edge of fear.

Potted plants dotted the corners, the vending machine beeped softly every few minutes, and beyond the large window, the sun dipped low over Savannah.

Still, no amount of faux comfort could hide the sterile weight of dread in the air.

At least they had the space to themselves. Miranda was grateful for the privacy. She couldn’t bear the idea of strangers witnessing her family unravel or, worse, trying to make small talk while her world teetered on the brink.

Lucas remained a silent sentinel, leaning against the far wall, arms crossed, his jaw tight.

Cole had left to run point at the office and keep the press at bay—a job that should have fallen to her.

But she was numb. Empty. Barely functioning.

Gwen had gone still, sitting upright in her chair like porcelain, hands twisting now and again in her lap, her tears finally dried.

But Miranda? She felt brittle. Her skin pulled too tight over bone, her emotions vibrating just under the surface.

One wrong word, one unexpected sound, and she’d shatter into glittering shards.

Movement caught her eye. A hand appeared in front of her, holding a steaming to-go cup with a compostable sipping lid.

She blinked. “What’s this?”

“It’s tea,” Lucas said, his voice low and quiet, almost gentle.

She looked up at him, slow comprehension giving way to a pang of gratitude. “How did you know?”

“You don’t drink coffee. Your assistant always brings you tea during meetings. Oolong or English breakfast, depending on the hour.”

The observation floored her more than the gesture. She accepted the cup and took a cautious sip. Perfect. She wanted to resent the presumption, but truthfully, she needed it. Badly.

She glanced over to see her mother sipping what looked like a cappuccino and picking daintily at a flaky pastry. Miranda turned an accusatory gaze back to Lucas. “She got a pastry, and I didn’t?”

He held up a small brown paper bag. “Wasn’t sure you’d want it.”

The scent of chocolate and custard wafted up from the bag. Her stomach rumbled. “Is there Boston cream in there? Then hell yes, I want it.”

His mouth quirked into a grin—boyish, genuine, a glimpse of the Lucas she remembered before corporate armor had hardened his edges. He dropped into the chair beside her, passing over the bag. She bit into the donut, groaned softly, and closed her eyes.

“God, that’s good. For the next five minutes, I don’t care about anything but this donut.”

“Glad I could contribute to your moment of bliss,” he murmured, and the way he said it—warm, amused, threaded with something heavier—sent a pulse of heat through her veins.

He stretched his arm along the back of her chair, fingertips brushing the back of her shoulder. Light. Barely there. But she felt it—every nerve ending suddenly tuned to the points of contact. Her body reacted before her mind could form the protest.

“How are you holding up?” he asked, his hand still resting lightly against her.

She exhaled, eyes still closed. “Barely hanging in. My brain won’t shut off. I keep thinking about everything that needs to happen if my dad’s out of commission.”

“Maybe it won’t be for long.”

She opened her eyes and frowned. “He’s had heart problems before. I doubt they’ll let him back in the office anytime soon.”

Lucas gestured subtly toward her mother. “She seems strong.”

“She is. And that surprises me.” Miranda leaned back, cradling the tea in her palms. “She’s always deferred to my father—every decision, every step. I expected her to fall apart.”