The Promotion

Chapter Sixty-Three

The next twenty-four hours were the most gut-wrenching hours of my life.

Everything after the ambulance arrived blurred into one continuous nightmare, as though my body moved on instinct while my mind lagged somewhere far behind. The sound of sirens, the harsh white lights overhead, the sharp smell of antiseptic—none of it felt real. I remembered clutching Alexander's hand as the paramedics worked around us, remembered begging him to stay awake, to stay with me, my voice cracking and breaking with every word.

I didn't remember letting go.

I didn't remember how long the drive to the hospital took.

I only remembered the moment they wheeled him away from me.

As soon as we arrived, everything happened too fast. Doctors and nurses surrounded him, speaking in clipped, urgent tones I couldn't understand. Someone gently but firmly pulled me back as they rushed him toward the operating theatre. I stumbled after them, panic clawing at my chest, until a nurse stopped me with a hand on my arm.

"You'll have to wait here, miss."

The doors swung shut.

And just like that, Alexander was gone from my sight.

I stood there for a long moment, staring at the closed doors as if sheer willpower might force them open again. My legs felt weak beneath me, my heart pounding so loudly in my ears I was sure everyone around me could hear it.

This time, I wasn't the patient.

This time, I was the one waiting.

The irony wasn't lost on me. The last time I had been in a hospital, I was the one waking up groggy and broken, stitched together after trauma. Alexander had been there for me then—calm, steady, refusing to leave my side. Now the roles were reversed, and the thought of him lying unconscious on an operating table made my stomach twist violently.

I eventually found myself in the waiting room, slumped into a plastic chair that felt too hard, too cold. My posture caved in on itself, shoulders rounded as if my body was trying to protect my heart from shattering completely. My leg bounced uncontrollably, my foot tapping against the floor in a frantic rhythm I couldn't stop.

Time lost all meaning.

Minutes stretched into hours. My eyes burned with exhaustion, but every time I tried to close them, images flooded my mind—Alexander lunging forward, the flash of the knife, the sound of metal tearing into flesh. I couldn't escape it. I didn't want to escape it. If he was fighting for his life, the least I could do was stay awake.

The waiting room felt suffocating. The hum of fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. The occasional footsteps of hospital staff echoed down the corridor. Every sound made me flinch.

Four hours.

Four hours of sitting there with my heart lodged in my throat, waiting for someone—anyone—to tell me whether the man I loved was going to live.

When the doctor finally approached me, I shot to my feet so fast my chair scraped loudly across the floor. My entire body tensed as I searched his face for clues, terrified that one wrong expression would destroy me.

"Miss Watts?" he asked gently.

I nodded, barely able to speak.

"The surgery went well," he said. "The wound wasn't as deep as we initially feared. Mr Pierce is stable."

The breath I'd been holding for hours finally escaped me in a shaky rush. My knees threatened to give out, and I had to grip the arm of the chair to steady myself.