Elliot

I gather her limp body into my arms. With a trembling hand, I brush the hair from her face. She's pale. Ashen, even. As if all the life somehow drained out of her during the five minutes I was gone. In that moment, I'm certain a piece of my frozen heart cracks.

Mira doesn't answer, and her eyelids remain closed. Her chest rises with shallow breaths. I slowly exhale, relieved that she's breathing. A red trail seeps from a nasty cut high on her forehead.

Careful not to jostle her, I search my pocket for my phone and call emergency services. They ask far too many damn questions, and I don't know what to tell them except to hurry up and get here.

"Mira."

I press the small hand towel from the sink beside me against her wound. She doesn't stir. She does nothing but lie there in my arms, unconscious. Without everything that makes her so… her.

Her smile, her laugh, her cheeks constantly flushing whenever I'm around…

At the thought, my heart clenches.

"Mira!"

I squeeze her body against mine, hoping something will finally wake her, but I'm met only with silence. Her faint breathing is the only thing keeping me from losing my mind.

"Mira. Wake up!"

A drop falls onto her forehead. I look at the ceiling, but I don't see a leak. A second lands on her face and runs into the streak of blood.

It takes me another second to realize the water is coming from me. They're my tears.

Always crying like a little girl. My father's slurred voice worms its way into my mind.

"Come on, Mira! Wake up."

I shake her body. She groans and brings a hand to her forehead, but I push her arm away.

"Thank God."

I can't understand any of the gibberish coming out of her mouth. The jumble of incoherent words only adds to my fear that her head injury is serious. None of it makes sense, and I'm afraid I may have made her condition worse by shaking her.

"Fuck!"

I drop the towel and hold her even tighter.

Did I hurt her? In my desperation, I didn't think. I didn't weigh the pros and cons before moving her body. I lost control again.

Her blood soaks into my T-shirt, sticky against my skin. My whole body trembles as I hold her to me.

Fuck, why did I shake her like that? She already has a head injury.

Damn it. That's my problem: I don't take the time to think. I let my useless emotions get to me.

Mira lets out a wheezing breath before another coughing fit seizes her.

The sound of sirens draws closer. Only then do the floodgates truly open and I begin to sob.

I've never ridden in an ambulance before today. My skin stays clammy as the paramedics work to stabilize Mira. She's more or less coherent. With her eyes closed, she answers a few questions.

When they wrap a bandage around her forehead, she grimaces. The monitor's beeps become more erratic, a staccato matching the rhythm of my heart.

Her suffering makes me want to unleash my rage. To throw things and scream because I feel like everything is my fault. I shouldn't have left her alone when she was only half lucid. In fact, if I'd said no to half the things we did in New York, maybe we wouldn't even be in this situation.

Is this what my father felt when my mother was rushed to the hospital? That terrible need to act while being completely unable to do anything?

How could I have been so stupid? I deliberately became like my father, catering to a woman's every desire until they consumed all my thoughts and influenced my actions. I rearranged my schedule, spent evenings mentoring when I should have been working, and even went on vacation instead of working on my proposal. Shit. I was even willing to give up my future as CFO to stay in Wondervale with her!

What the hell is wrong with me?

I went soft and let her do whatever she wanted with me. And for what? To willingly submit myself to this feeling of helplessness?

No chance. I utterly despise this feeling wreaking havoc on my head and heart. If I never experience it again, I'll be eternally grateful.

That's why I should have listened to my instincts when I met Mira. Something warned me to keep my distance, but I didn't pay enough attention.

A shiver runs through me. Even so, the adrenaline won't let me give in to exhaustion.

When the doors open, I'm shoved out of the way as they take Mira out on a stretcher and wheel her into the emergency department. Passing through the automatic doors feels like an out-of-body experience. The deeply unpleasant smell of antiseptic assaults me.

I operate on autopilot. The nurse trying to get my attention has to repeat herself several times.

"Are you family?"

Her voice brings me back to the present.

"What?"

"Family or friend?"

"Fiancé."

I've watched enough TV to know how things work here. She gives me a quick once-over as if she can detect my lie, but surprisingly, she nods.

"All right, follow me."

The nurse leads me to a waiting room where a few people are sitting. The worn linoleum and the fluorescent lights flickering in one corner do nothing to calm me.

My hands are shaking. I haven't set foot in a hospital since Grandfather's accident. And before that, not since my mother died. Hospitals and I don't mix. And now my present and my future have collided inside one.

I call after the nurse as she walks away.

"I'd like my fiancée to be placed in a private room."

She looks down at her clipboard.

"Once she's stable, it'll depend on her insurance. Do you have the same plan?"

I clench my teeth. I don't know the details of her coverage, much less whether it covers private rooms.

Knowing your employees' insurance plans, do you really expect it to?

My selfishness is coming back to bite me… And the worst part is, this is only the beginning.

The nurse returns with a consent form. I write Mira’s sister as the first contact, then stop.

“Mira decides who else is included when she wakes,” I say.

The nurse studies me before taking the form. “That is the right answer.”

I call Lena and tell her the facts without softening them, including the part where I moved Mira before the paramedics arrived. She asks for the room number and says she is driving through the night.

For the first time since I found Mira on the floor, the emergency has a witness who is not paid by my family.

I replay the hallway in exact order. Mira carried the revised route file. The service door stood open. Someone had moved the caution sign three feet to the left, far enough to make the wet floor look dry from the corridor.

I call security and ask for the camera archive.

“That footage requires a formal request,” the supervisor says.

“Then log this call as the request.”

“The system overwrites files after twenty-four hours.”

“Not this one.”

I send the order in writing and copy the independent auditor. A minute later, my phone vibrates with a confirmation number. When Lena arrives, she asks whether Mira chose the hospital. I tell her the truth.