Page 39 of Love Loathe Devotion (Tightrope #3)

The TV is already queued up on the livestream link, the countdown in the corner ticking down like a heartbeat. Thirty-seven minutes to go.

The smell of pepperoni and garlic bread clings to the air, the boxes stacked on the coffee table half-eaten—no one’s really hungry, not tonight, but ordering pizza felt like something normal to do. Something grounding.

Sam sits cross-legged on the couch beside me, the baby monitor gripped in her hand like it’s the only thing keeping her from unraveling. The little screen shows a grainy image of Joey in his room, curled up under his space blanket, one hand tucked beneath his cheek.

“He went down early,” she says quietly, not looking away from the monitor. “Didn’t even finish his juice.”

I rest a gentle hand on her arm. “He was just tired, Sam. He’s had a long few days.”

“I know,” she says, but her voice trembles just a little. “It’s just… he never sleeps through this hour unless he’s run-down.”

Across the room, Lucas stands by the windows, arms folded, staring out into the backyard like he’s waiting for something to appear in the darkness and explain how to fix all of this.

He hasn’t sat once since I arrived. His jaw is tight, his movements short and sharp.

I can feel the storm simmering under his skin.

He turns slightly, his eyes flicking to the baby monitor, then to the screen, then to Sam. “You good?” he asks softly.

Sam just nods.

I glance between them—this couple who always feel so tethered to each other—and tonight there’s a fragile hum in the space between them. Not tension, exactly. But fragility. Like every second that passes is weighted with something neither of them wants to say out loud.

The number on the screen changes—36:00.

I lean into the couch cushions, drawing my knees up, trying to stay calm. But my heart’s thudding like a drumline.

This night matters.

Not just because it’s Eddie’s biggest show of the tour. Not just because his name has been trending all day, because celebrities have been posting about the Kidney Donation Chain, because there’s a genuine movement taking shape around this.

It matters because of that little boy in the next room.

Because of the quiet dread in Sam’s voice.

Because of the way Lucas hasn’t stopped scanning the darkness outside like he’s trying to hold the world together with sheer force of will.

“Everything’s going to go perfectly tonight,” I say softly, hoping it will settle something. “The campaign’s going to take off. People are already signing up in droves.”

Sam finally tears her eyes from the monitor to look at me. “You really think so?”

“I know so,” I say, with more certainty than I feel—but maybe if I keep saying it, we’ll believe it together.

Lucas clears his throat, then finally crosses the room to sit beside Sam, his hand slipping around hers. “Eddie’s putting everything on the line for this,” he says quietly. “Every damn thing.”

He doesn’t mean the press. Or the stage. Or the label.

He means his heart.

Sam squeezes his hand. “I hate that he’s carrying so much,” she murmurs. “But I’m so grateful too.”

I nod, emotion bubbling just under my skin. “He’s doing it for Joey. For you. For every family waiting for a call.”

Lucas leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, running a hand through his hair.

There’s a shadow in his eyes tonight I haven’t seen before. Something raw. Something that feels like he’s balancing on the edge between fear and hope and doesn’t know which way the wind will blow.

“Everything rides on this,” he murmurs, more to himself than to us. “This night. This push. This chance.”

I want to say something to soothe him. To steady the shaking foundation under all of us.

But the truth is—we all feel it.

Joey’s life might not change tonight. But the clock is ticking.

And we’re running out of time.

The clock on the screen reads 04:58. The lights dim on the livestream as the music swells, a soft pre-show hum, like the world holding its breath.

Sam rises from the couch with the monitor still in her hand, glancing down at the grainy image of Joey’s room. “I’m just going to peek in,” she says. “He hasn’t moved at all.”

I nod, offering a small smile that feels too thin to mean anything. “Of course. Go.”

She disappears down the hallway, the door creaking shut behind her.

Lucas stays seated, his elbows braced on his knees, hands clasped together so tightly his knuckles are white. The glow from the TV flickers against his jaw, and I can see the muscles there twitching with a tension he’s trying not to show.

There’s a weight in the air. A slow, creeping sense of something wrong.

I shift, trying to ignore the chill skating along the back of my neck.

But then—

“Lucas!”

Sam’s scream cuts through the air like a blade.

Then again. “Lucas! Oh God—Joey—Lucas!”

He’s on his feet in an instant, a blur of movement bolting down the hall and up the stairs. “Laney, with me!”

I don’t even think. My legs move before my mind does, my heart jackhammering in my chest as I chase him, my feet slamming on the stairs. Every sound sharpens—Sam’s frantic voice, the rush of blood in my ears, the creak of the banister under my hand.

When we reach the doorway, I stop short.

Sam is sitting on the edge of the bed, cradling Joey in her arms. His little body is slack, his face pale and swollen, his fingers like tiny sausages, his eyes fluttering with exhaustion and something else, something wrong.

It’s fluid retention. I know it is. I’ve seen it before. But seeing it in Joey—watching his mother rock him like he’s breakable—rips something straight from my chest.

“He won’t wake up properly,” Sam sobs, voice cracking. “He’s breathing but he’s so… heavy.”

“I’ve got you,” Lucas says, kneeling beside them, his arms wrapping around them both, holding them like he’s trying to keep all three hearts in one beat. “We’re going now. We’re going right now.”

“I’ll get the car,” he says, standing—

“No.” My voice is sharper than I mean it to be, but firm. Certain. “I’ll get the car. You stay with them.”

He looks at me, eyes wild. Searching. Then nods, once. “Keys are in the dish,” he says. “Garage. Black SUV.”

“I know.”

And then I’m flying.

Down the stairs.

Through the kitchen.

Out the door.

The cold night air hits me like a slap. My breath fogs the air, my hands shake as I fumble for the keys.

My pulse pounds in my ears so loud I can barely hear myself think.

But I move. I throw the driver’s door open, start the engine, reverse fast and spin toward the front entrance just as the house door bursts open.

Lucas is carrying Joey now, Sam clinging beside him, barefoot, still in her soft pajama pants. Joey’s head lolls against his father’s chest, cheeks puffed, eyes fluttering in dazed, silent confusion.

I jump out and throw the back door open. “Go!” I shout, running to open the passenger door for Sam. “Get him in—get him buckled—”

Lucas climbs in with Joey still in his arms, settling him gently in the middle row as Sam climbs in beside them, buckling Joey’s limp frame in and bracing his head against her chest.

I slam the doors shut, jump into the front seat, and throw the car into gear.

Then we’re moving.

Fast.

Tires crunching down the gravel drive, headlights slicing through the dark.

No one says a word for the first few minutes. The only sound is the labored rhythm of Joey’s breathing and Sam’s whispered reassurances.

I grip the wheel tighter, blinking fast as tears threaten to fall—but I don’t let them. Not now. Because right now, I’m not the woman who was afraid of everything. I’m not the girl hiding in fear behind what-ifs. I’m a part of this family. And I will not let them fall apart tonight.

Not when everything’s riding on it.

The SUV screeches into the emergency bay, tires biting the pavement, headlights throwing harsh beams across the gleaming hospital doors. The second we stop, Lucas throws his door open and lifts Joey into his arms like he weighs nothing at all.

But I can see it—he does.

He weighs everything.

“Call Dr. Scott!” Lucas shouts as we rush through the sliding doors. His voice is hoarse, loud, but breaking beneath the surface. “He’s Joey’s primary!”

The receptionist at the desk doesn’t waste a second. One look at Joey’s swollen face and limp limbs, and she’s already reaching for the red phone on the wall.

“Code orange—child, age four, swelling and low responsiveness. Paging Dr. Scott to pediatrics intake. STAT.”

I’m right behind them, my pulse screaming in my neck, my heart lodged somewhere in my throat. Sam clutches Joey’s foot as Lucas carries him toward the corridor, her other hand pressed to her mouth like she’s holding in a scream.

A nurse opens the double doors to the ward just as we reach it. Dr. Scott is already there, coat flapping as he jogs down the corridor.

“Lucas,” he says, his face grim but focused. “Straight to Room B4. Let’s go.”

Lucas doesn’t hesitate. He disappears with Joey and Sam into the ward, the doors swinging closed behind them.

And just like that, I’m alone.

My breath catches in my throat, my chest tight with the kind of panic that has nowhere to go. I stagger backward and drop into a waiting room chair, my hands clenched in my lap, my fingers numb from the grip I haven’t released since the drive over.

The harsh lights overhead buzz quietly. The vinyl seat beneath me sticks to the back of my thighs.

I watch the clock, try and play a little Candy Mine on my phone, pace, drink endless amounts of bitter coffee from the vending machine and wait and wait and pray to anyone who will listen that Joey will be okay.

I would do just about anything right now to feel Eddie’s arms around me, to hear his whispered reassurance in my ear.

My phone sits silent in my hoodie pocket. No new messages. No new calls.

Eddie is on stage right now. Or—was. I glance at the clock on the wall. Nearly midnight.

The show must’ve ended by now.