Page 23 of Make You Mine

Chelsea

Amerie barely made it to the train platform before her body gave out. I suppose that’s what happens when your insulin’s been tampered with.

It never mattered where she was when it happened. The collapse was inevitable, because I made sure it would be.

When I arrive nearly an hour later at the A&E, I’m carefully composed and ready to give a performance worthy of a BAFTA. I stop by the nurse’s desk and explain I heard about Amerie Keating’s collapse and I’ve brought her children by.

The first nurse I’m speaking to nods sympathetically, buying the act I put on.

But it’s the second nurse, a blonde with dark eyebrows who looks up and frowns.

“Claire?” she says loudly. “Claire Hughes? From Ashwick? It’s been ages!”

I glance around as a few heads turn in our direction. Heat creeps up my neck and floods my cheeks. I clear my throat and say in the most clipped tone I can manage, “It’s Chelsea, actually.”

The blonde’s brow knits in confusion, but she doesn’t press it.

The first nurse I’d been speaking to steps back in and takes charge again, gesturing toward the seating area. “You can wait over there. We’ll let you know once she’s ready for visitors.”

I nod, as if I’m barely keeping it together. “Thank you. That really means a lot. We’re all terribly worried about her.”

I speak as if I’m her family.

I am as good as family. Because Amerie’s family is mine now.

A small tug on the hem of my blouse draws my attention downward. Willow is staring up at me with wide and misty eyes, her bottom lip trembling as though she’s trying to be brave but hasn’t yet learned how to mask it properly.

“Where’s Mommy?” she asks. “Is she going to be okay?”

I look at her, and wonder how long it’ll be before she begins to understand the truth.

Her mother is never coming home. Not properly. Whether it’s the coma that takes her, or the complications that follow, or another carefully orchestrated mistake waiting further down the line, the outcome will be the same.

Amerie is going away. I’ll see to it.

But Willow doesn’t know that. She’s still soft and innocent.

I crouch down to her level with a gentle expression. “We’re going to pick Mummy some flowers. Lovely ones. Daffodils and forget-me-nots. And when she sees them, she’ll feel much better.”

Willow stares at me for a moment, then slowly nods. She’s still sniffling, so small and pitiful, like a wet kitten left out in the cold. I reach for her hand and give it a reassuring squeeze.

“That’s a good girl,” I say, rising to my feet.

Emmett has begun to stir in the stroller, rustling under his blanket with the twitchy, unsettled movements of a baby who knows something’s off but can’t make sense of it. I guide the stroller gently toward the seating area, one hand on the handle, the other still holding Willow’s.

“Come along now. Sit down here with your brother,” I say, motioning to the chairs with the faded upholstery and gum pressed into the corners. “We’ll see Mummy soon.”

Willow climbs up into the seat with a sigh and curls her knees against her chest. I settle the stroller beside her and check on Emmett, who’s blinking blearily, his eyes glassy and unfocused.

I straighten the blanket over his legs and adjust the hood of the stroller.

It won’t be long until Amerie’s gone, and once she is, the children won’t need to ask anyone where their mummy is.

They’ll already have a new one.

Me.

Declan arrives at A&E in pieces. There’s no attempt at composure, no performative calm for the children’s sake.

Just the full, raw weight of a man unraveled.

His eyes are bloodshot, his tie hanging loose at the collar like he’s forgotten how to dress himself, or simply couldn’t bear the pressure at his throat a moment longer.

His breathing is erratic, each inhale like he’s trying to catch something that keeps slipping away. He moves with the frantic aimlessness of a wounded animal, pacing across the waiting area, stopping nurses mid-step, demanding to see his wife with a voice that cracks each time he raises it.

It’s all rather theatrical.

And strangely romantic, in that fevered, helpless sort of way that makes something in me ache. There’s a tenderness to his panic, a loyalty sharpened by urgency. I can’t help but imagine what it might feel like to be the woman who elicits that kind of reaction from him.

The woman he falls to pieces over.

In time, I will be.

Soon, those same wild, broken-eyed expressions will be for me.

But I play my role for now. The part of the caring, emotionally supportive nanny.

The dependable fixture in their domestic backdrop.

As he approaches me and the littlies, I rise from my seat with a gentle expression drawn across my face, the picture of quiet concern.

I tilt my head to the side, offering the kind of sympathy that invites tears.

I’m ready to be the shoulder he cries on.

“I’m so sorry, Declan,” I murmur softly. “I don’t know what went wrong.”

He doesn’t speak, not at first. His reddened eyes sweep over the children, his chest still rising and falling in those jagged, uneven breaths. I press on gently, guiding the narrative I’ve already rehearsed in my head half a dozen times on the ride over.

“She insisted on going to the station herself,” I say, sighing.

My gaze drifts downward. “I tried to tell her it was too much, truly I did. She was shaky this morning, and I asked if she’d eaten properly, if she’d taken her insulin, but you know what she’s like.

Always so determined to prove she’s fine.

I do try to remind her, but... she can be a bit stubborn, can’t she? ”

Still, no response. His eyes are fixed on the ground, his mouth slack with grief. There’s a weight hanging off him, something dragging him beneath the surface.

Willow slips down from the chair and crosses to him, her arms wrapping around his middle in a hug that’s more desperation than comfort. Her voice comes out muffled against his shirt.

“Daddy, please make sure Mommy’s okay.”

Declan’s hands hover for a moment before finally settling on Willow’s back, his fingers curling into the fabric of her dress. There’s a hitch in his throat when he tries to answer her, but whatever he means to say never forms.

A nurse steps into view before the silence becomes unbearable. Her scrubs are crinkled at the sleeves and there’s a pen tucked behind her ear. She glances between Declan and me, and then down at the children.

“The doctor’s ready to let you in now,” she says in a kind tone. “You can see your wife.”

Declan nods without speaking. Still holding Willow, he follows the nurse down the corridor, his gait uneven, as though he’s forgotten how to walk with purpose.

I trail behind, keeping my hands on the stroller as I push Emmett forward.

The hospital room is already occupied when we’re shown inside. A doctor stands at the far end, clipboard tucked beneath one arm, the other hand resting casually on the railing of the bed as if he hasn’t spent the afternoon keeping someone’s wife alive.

Declan stiffens beside me the moment he sees her.

Amerie lies motionless beneath thin cotton sheets, a hospital gown folded open at the collar.

Her limp arms are splayed to either side,, her brown skin dotted with the marks of IV insertion and the papery edges of medical tape.

A tangle of wires drapes over her, trailing from machines that emit soft, rhythmic beeps without end.

Her lips are dry and chapped. Her eyelids don’t flicker.

She looks ill in a way no makeup or lighting could ever soften.

Declan doesn’t move. He’s frozen in the doorway, as if stepping into the room might shatter something fragile between them.

I give his arm a gentle nudge.

He jerks forward, startled, and then steps toward the doctor.

“Mr. Keating?” the man says, reaching out a hand. “I’m Dr. Sharma. I’ve been overseeing your wife’s care since she arrived.”

Declan shakes his hand in that numb, automatic way men do when they’re too grief-stricken to be present.

Dr. Sharma glances briefly at me, then down at Willow, who’s clinging to my skirt, silent as a mute.

“Your wife suffered a severe hypoglycemic episode. It was a significant crash. Her blood sugar levels had dropped to a dangerously low point. Frankly, if the paramedics hadn’t arrived when they did, the outcome might’ve been very different.”

“When…” Declan starts, but the word catches. He clears his throat and tries again. “When will she wake up?”

“The good news is she will regain consciousness soon,” the doctor explains.

“We’ve already administered glucagon injections to stabilize her levels, and they’re rising steadily now.

But because her body was without adequate glucose for so long, it’s caused some strain.

We’re keeping her overnight for monitoring. ”

I watch Declan’s face as he listens, his jaw tightening, his brow drawing low. There’s a shift in his posture, a slow bristle of frustration overtaking the helplessness.

“This doesn’t make sense,” he says. “My wife manages her condition. She takes her insulin. She eats right. Something this severe shouldn’t be happening.”

Willow shrinks further behind me, pressing her face into the back of my thigh. I rest a hand over her head, gently stroking her curls.

Dr. Sharma remains calm as he’s challenged. “I understand your concern, Mr. Keating. Believe me, we’re asking the same questions. That’s part of the reason we want to keep her for observation. At the moment, we suspect the insulin she injected may have been compromised.”

Declan blinks.