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CHAPTER THIRTY

That same moment

NEW YORK

I step into the room where Morrison lies intubated, still unable to believe everything that’s happened in the past few hours. It’s like going from paradise straight into hell, a real-life nightmare that I know can’t be escaped simply by waking up.

There’s no waking up from this. Right in front of me is the man who’s always been like a brother to me. Protector. Friend. Partner in every moment that’s ever mattered.

The one who considered himself as untouchable as I’ve always believed myself to be . . . now has his life hanging by a thread.

The familiar sounds of the hospital, usually background noise to me—my routine, my world—cut deep today. The steady beep of Morrison’s heart monitor tears through my chest.

This is my fault. He ended up like this trying to contain the damage I caused. His life, quite literally, is dangling over a cliff’s edge.

Looking at him, he doesn’t even seem like someone who’s just survived a horrific accident. His face is more peaceful than it ever is when he’s awake, but something vital is missing. The energy. The sarcasm. The ever-present smirk, always ready to laugh at himself and everyone else.

I thought I was immune to emotions.

I learned I was wrong during the weekend with Alexis.

It took me thirty-eight years to realize I’m as susceptible to feelings as anyone else.

In a matter of days, I plunged headfirst into an intoxicating, unexpected passion.

For the first time in my life, the certainty I feel about a woman isn’t about what I don’t want—it's a determination to keep her. Without an expiration date.

There’s nothing rational about it. We’re opposites in every possible way, and yet, paradoxically, I feel like we complete each other.

I should call her and explain that I might not make it back this weekend—not until I know how things are going here.

I also don’t think it’s wise to bring her to Manhattan in the middle of all this chaos.

Seth already told me the media is spinning wild theories about the accident, speculating about some kind of love triangle between me, Jodie, and Morrison.

Even if I wasn’t with her when the accident happened, I won’t let my cousin—who can’t defend himself right now—be dragged into some sordid tabloid story.

"Wake up, Morrison. You’re stronger than any of these fucking machines."

I see his eyelids flutter, but I’m too rational to believe it’s in response to my voice. I know it’s nothing more than an involuntary ocular reflex. It doesn’t necessarily indicate consciousness.

I leave the room and head to the floor where Jodie is being treated. Her case is far more critical, and only twelve ICU beds are housed there.

I tried to see her when I first arrived, but she was just coming out of a second surgery. Athanasios was operating. And if anyone can save her, it’s him—my partner and friend. From what I’ve been told so far, most of her injuries are brain-related.

I know, from what I read in her chart, that even if she survives, she’ll never be the same. The affected area controls basic functions: walking, concentration, speech—even the simplest daily tasks. Not to mention the prospect of chronic pain.

I grip the doorknob and take a deep breath before opening the door. Just because there were never real feelings between us doesn’t mean I’m unaffected. I should’ve reached out to her parents sooner—before it was too late—when she started showing signs of serious mental instability.

I’ve worked with patients in all kinds of conditions, most of them balancing precariously between life and death, but I’ve never had someone close to me in this position. And I’m not prepared for what I see.

The vibrant, stunning woman who was always perfectly put together is now tethered to machines—utterly dependent on them to breathe.

A ventilator is helping her lungs, supplying the oxygen her damaged brain needs to keep functioning.

A bandage wraps her head. Her face is unrecognizable—cut, scarred.

There’s a brutal bruise on her right temple.

Her hands, once delicate, now look fragile and broken, the knuckles shredded by lacerations.

"There’s nothing more to be done," Athanasios says from behind me, confirming what I’d already suspected.

It takes me a few seconds to turn around. Guilt—an emotion unfamiliar to me—hits hard.

"I just spoke with her family. It’s pointless to keep her on life support. She’s not coming back, LJ."

More than anyone, I know how much it costs him to accept that. If there were even the slimmest chance of saving her, he would.

The door opens again, and I see William in the doorway. He enters, quietly closing it behind him.

"Why didn’t you ever tell us about her?" he asks.

Instead of answering, I simply shake my head and gesture for them to follow me into the hallway.

It doesn’t feel right, not in a moment like this, to admit that even when I thought I was fooling myself, deep down, I never really saw Jodie as my future wife.

Once we’re all outside her room, I explain our relationship—how it started, how it ended, and how she’d been acting over the last few days.

I leave Alexis out of it. Somehow, bringing her name into the chaos I created feels like tainting her.

"What about Morrison?" I ask, forcing myself to focus on something, anything, because I’ve never felt this lost.

But before Athanasios can answer, three members of Jodie’s family approach—her older sister and two cousins.

"This is your fault, LJ! You killed her! You ruined my sister’s life—and your own child’s!"

"What?"

"Jodie told me everything. She begged you to listen. She wanted to tell you she was pregnant, but instead, you ran off to have your fun—because I know you were with another woman. I hope you suffer for the rest of your life, you bastard! I hope your heart bleeds every time you remember the two lives you destroyed. Not just the woman who loved you—but your own flesh and blood. You killed Jodie and your baby. Maybe you’ll kill the man you called your brother, too. You’re a monster."

I look at William and Athanasios, silently pleading for them to tell me it’s not true. No one told me she was pregnant, and I don’t remember seeing anything about it in her file.

"I only found out once she was already in surgery," Athanasios says. "It looked like it was early on, but we’ll know for sure in a few hours. By the time she got to the hospital, she’d already miscarried. There was nothing we could do."

I take a step back, a pain I never imagined possible locking up my body and short-circuiting my brain.

The last few phone calls with her flash through my mind.

The way she begged me to listen. The way she cried when she talked about the future.

It wasn’t just about us. It was about our child.

"I’d tell you to go to hell, LJ," Sheila says, "but I don’t think that’s necessary. I can see it on your face—you’re already there."