Page 22 of Make You Mine

She dashes from the room before I can even process the onslaught of guilt.

I let out a long, shaking breath and drop onto the edge of the bed. Emmett’s cries only get louder, more frantic, as if he’s matching the chaos crackling around us. My head throbs as my blood sugar monitor beeps against my waistband.

Low.

I reach for my purse before I remember it’s downstairs.

Of course it is.

A soft knock makes me look up.

Chelsea stands in the doorway, silhouetted by the natural light flooding the upstairs hall.

“Is everything alright?” she asks. “I thought I heard a crash.”

I manage a nod as Emmett writhes in my arms. “A vase was accidentally knocked over. Could you… would you mind checking on Willow for me? And maybe helping her get packed? We leave tonight, and there’s still a lot to do…”

“Of course, my dear,” Chelsea says, offering the same steady, unreadable smile she usually wears. A split second later, she slips back out of the room.

I shift Emmett higher on my shoulder and reach for the drawer on my nightstand.

There’s a box of dark chocolates that I keep stashed inside for low-sugar emergencies.

I unwrap one with trembling fingers and pop it into my mouth.

The sugar hits my tongue and I close my eyes, willing the burst of glucose to settle me down.

My phone buzzes on the dresser. Declan’s name lights the screen.

I exhale, then answer, voice sounding smaller than I’d like. “Hey… please tell me you’re calling to say the trip’s canceled and we’re moving to Barbados instead.”

A low chuckle rumbles through the line. “Tempting, but no. I’m afraid you’re still stuck heading north with me and the goblins.”

I roll my eyes, dragging my hand across my forehead. “Don’t joke unless you mean it. I’ve had about five meltdowns already today, and it’s not even lunchtime.”

“Which is exactly why I hate to do this, love…” His tone shifts, losing any playfulness, and instead taking on an apologetic quality. “But I’ve got a big ask. And before you bite my head off, just know I’m desperate.”

I freeze in the middle of folding more of Emmett’s onesies. “Go on…”

“I need the USB from my office. The black one. I don’t know how, but I must’ve left it behind this morning in the mad rush out. I need it for a very big meeting with the other execs this afternoon. It’s really important. Nonnegotiable.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose and sigh. “Can’t you just log into the cloud or something? I can email it to you.”

“No can do. It’s too big and encrypted to death. It won’t send, and it’s not on my drive—just that USB. Please, love. Maybe Chelsea can run it in? Just needs to be dropped at Waterloo station. I’ll meet whoever on the platform myself.”

“No, it’s fine,” I murmur, my voice tight. “I’ll do it. I’ll text you when I get to the station.”

“You’re a lifesaver. I’ll owe you one. Scratch that—I’ll owe you five.”

“Add it to the growing tab,” I mutter, already calculating what I’ll need to do just to get out the damn door.

We hang up with added weight burdening my shoulders.

For a second, I just sit there, phone resting against my collarbone. I could send Chelsea. She’s used to running errands now, used to stepping in when I’m buried. But something about that doesn’t sit right.

I’m the mom. I’m his wife. And lately, it feels like I’ve handed over too much.

It feels like… I’m losing control of my own household, handing over the reins to another woman.

It’s something I’ve refrained from openly admitting to myself, but the more little fires pop up out of nowhere, the more it lingers in my subconscious. The more I’ve begun to resent Chelsea’s mere presence in our house, even if I haven’t let myself admit as much.

There’s a reason I suggested we let her go after Scotland, and it really had nothing to do with my manuscript being finished.

It might sound silly, but I feel like I have something to prove. Declan’s depending on me, and lately I’ve failed at so much, I want to show him— and myself more than anyone—that I can do this.

Without Chelsea swooping in to save the day.

I shove the candy wrapper into the nightstand drawer, wipe my hands on my leggings, and start preparing to leave the house.

I head downstairs and find Willow with Chelsea in the kitchen.

The five-year-old’s swinging her legs at the table, happily munching on carrot sticks while Chelsea slices strawberries into a bowl.

The scent of toasted bread and fruit lingers in the warm air, and I catch the faint traces of Willow’s favorite cartoon playing in the next room.

“Hey,” I say, grabbing my purse off the kitchen counter. “I’ve gotta run something to Declan real quick. He left a USB at home and needs it for a meeting.”

Chelsea looks up immediately, a crease forming between her brows. “That’s a shame. But are you sure you’ve got time for that, my dear? You’ve still got a mountain of packing and writing ahead, haven’t you?”

“I’ll only be gone an hour or two, tops,” I say, adjusting the strap of my purse on my shoulder. “Train station drop-off. Quick in and out. Emmett’s already down for his afternoon nap.”

Chelsea sets down the knife and wipes her hands on a towel. “At least take a snack with you. It’ll be lunch soon, and you look like you're running on fumes.”

I wave a hand, already half turned toward the door. “I’m fine. I’ll grab something on the way if I need it.”

“Don’t make me lecture you like a mum, Amerie. At least toss a granola bar in your bag.”

“Alright, alright. Message received.”

“Bye, Mommy,” Willow murmurs, raising her little hand in a wave. She seems hesitant, not surprising given how I’d snapped at her earlier.

“Bye, Lo. I’ll be back before you know it,” I say, kissing the top of her curls. I head for the door, the afternoon sun already cutting through the front windows.

The quiet click of the door behind me feels louder than it should. I take a breath and step into the spring air, already moving fast toward the train station.

I’m barely through the doors of the Rosethorne Station when I realize something’s wrong. Not just a little off, not the kind of exhaustion that comes from a long day juggling deadlines and household chaos, but something that’s deeply off.

The air feels thick despite the spring breeze filtering in through the open archway, and as I take another step forward, the polished tile beneath my flats seems to pitch slightly, the floor tilting just enough to make me blink hard and steady my hand on the nearest column.

My pulse thuds heavily in my throat, and I can feel the prickle of sweat breaking out along my spine, dampening the back of my blouse.

I stand there for a moment, disoriented by the swirl of noise and motion around me—commuters jostling past with phones pressed to their ears, the clatter of rolling luggage over brick, the screech of distant train brakes—and try to swallow the rising nausea pushing against the back of my throat.

I ate breakfast. I remember the exact moment: sitting at the kitchen table while Emmett cooed in his highchair and Willow rambled about Scottish castles. Two poached eggs, a toasted whole wheat muffin, and a strong cup of coffee.

I took my insulin exactly like I was supposed to. Yet something’s wrong. Something’s off .

My vision has blurred at the edges, like a vignette filter pulled tight around my peripheral, and I realize I haven’t blinked in too long. My thoughts are sluggish. Everything feels like it’s happening a half-second behind.

I need to sit down right now.

Luckily, there’s a bench tucked along the side of a kiosk that’s empty.

I make my way to it with stiff, halting steps, lowering myself slowly like any sudden movement will knock me over.

My purse drops into my lap, heavier than it should be, and I dig through it with trembling hands, ignoring how my glucose monitor has started frantically beeping.

I pull free the granola bar Chelsea handed me earlier.

I tear it open with my teeth and chew mechanically, barely tasting the oats and honey as I force the dry, crumbling pieces down, following it with a couple of chocolates I keep for emergencies.

But it doesn’t help. If anything, I feel worse .

How is this possible? What’s going on?

My forehead is clammy, and my skin has taken on that unpleasant, waxy texture I remember from the early days of my diagnosis, back when I used to pretend nothing was wrong until my body forcibly reminded me it was.

I fumble for my insulin pen, nestled in the side pocket where I always keep it, and when I pull it out, something about it makes me pause.

Just for a second. The casing feels a little warmer than usual, like it hasn’t been stored properly, like it’s been sitting too close to heat, and the click of the dial sounds dull, less sharp than it should.

But I’m desperate, and I don’t have time to second guess myself.

I inject it quickly, lifting the hem of my shirt just enough to press the pen into my abdomen through the waistband of my jeans. My hands are fully trembling now, not just from low blood sugar, but from the sinking dread taking over.

Nothing about this feels right.

I press a hand to my forehead, trying to breathe through the haze clouding my thoughts, but the nausea rises higher, stronger now, twisting through my gut like a tidal wave.

The fluorescent lights overhead buzz louder than they should.

My limbs feel heavy, uncooperative. I’ve lost almost all control of my body, and somewhere distantly in the back of my fuzzy mind… I know I have.

I can barely hear myself think over the pounding in my ears.

Someone sits down beside me. I register the rustle of plastic shopping bags, the soft grunt of exertion, and then a gentle, tremulous voice of an older British woman.

“Dear, are you alright? You don’t look well at all.”

I try to answer—at least I’m pretty sure I try—but my lips feel sluggish, like they’re trying to move through syrup, and the words don’t come out.

I jerk my head to look at her, to explain that I’m unwell and need help, but the motion is too much.

The floor dips hard beneath me, like the world has become unglued.

My entire body goes slack. The bench tilts sideways.

And then the rush of light and noise and color all fades into nothing at once. I hit the floor and lose consciousness.