Chapter Forty One
Hope for the Desperate
Jameson Bishop
The OR doors slam open so hard they hit the wall.
I’m on my feet before I realize I’ve moved, heart in my throat, breath locked somewhere between a prayer and a scream.
A surgeon steps out…scrubs splattered, mask hanging loose around his neck, eyes sharp and exhausted. He scans the waiting room until he finds me.
“Bishop?”
My legs nearly give out.
“Yes,” I manage, voice raw. “I’m - yeah. I’m here.”
He steps closer, and everything in me braces for the worst.
“We stabilized her,” he says.
My knees buckle. I grab the back of the chair to stay upright.
“But she’s not out of danger.”
The world tilts again.
“She lost a significant amount of blood,” he continues. “The knife punctured deep. We repaired the damage, but she’s still critical. She coded twice on the table.”
I swallow hard, throat burning. “Is she…. did she…”
“She’s alive,” he says firmly. “But she’s fighting.”
Alive.
She’s alive.
The word hits me like a blow to the chest.
I drag a hand over my face, shaking so hard I can barely breathe. “Can I see her?”
“Not yet. She’s being moved to ICU. She’ll be sedated for a while. We need to monitor her closely.”
I nod, even though the motion feels disconnected from my body. “Okay. Okay.”
The surgeon’s expression softens. “She held on. That’s not nothing.”
I choke on a breath. “She’s strong.”
“She is,” he agrees. “But she’s not out of the woods. The next twenty-four hours are critical.”
Critical.
Twenty-four hours.
I don’t know how to survive twenty-four minutes without her.
The surgeon places a hand on my shoulder. “I’ll come back with updates as soon as I have them.”
He turns and disappears down the hall.
I stand there, staring at the empty space he left behind, the words she’s alive echoing in my skull like a heartbeat.
My legs finally give out.
I drop into the chair, elbows on my knees, hands covering my face, breath shaking out of me in broken bursts.
She’s alive. She’s alive. She’s alive.
But she almost wasn’t.
And she still might not be.
I pull out my phone with trembling fingers and call Gemma again. She answers immediately.
“Bishop?”
“She’s alive,” I whisper, voice cracking. “She- she coded twice, but they brought her back. She’s in ICU. They said she’s critical. They said the next twenty-four hours-”
My voice breaks completely.
Gemma exhales sharply, relief and fear tangled together. “Okay. Okay. That’s something. That’s good. She’s fighting.”
“I don’t know how to do this,” I whisper. “I don’t know how to sit here and wait. I don’t know how to breathe without her.”
“You don’t have to do it alone,” Gemma says. “I’m already at the airport. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
I close my eyes, tears burning hot.
“Hurry,” I whisper. “Please.”
“I’m coming,” she says. “Hold on.”
The call ends.
I stare at the ICU doors.
And I hold on.
The ICU is too quiet.
Machines hum. Monitors beep. Sterile air presses against my skin like it’s trying to keep me out.
They finally let me in; one visitor, five minutes, don’t touch anything, don’t disturb her.
I don’t care about the rules.
I care about her.
Rachel lies in the bed, pale and still, tubes and wires everywhere, her chest rising in shallow, fragile breaths. She looks nothing like the woman who fought Beth with fire in her eyes.
She looks breakable.
I pull the chair close, close enough that my knees touch the bed frame, close enough that I can see the faint flutter of her eyelashes.
“Rachel,” I whisper, voice barely holding together. “I’m here.”
Her fingers twitch.
My breath stops.
I lean forward, careful, terrified of hurting her. “Sweetheart… can you hear me?”
Her eyelids flutter again, slow, heavy, like they’re made of stone. Then they lift just enough for me to see her eyes.
Barely open. Barely focused. But open.
“B… Bishop…” Her voice is a ghost of a sound.
I choke on a breath. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m right here.”
She tries to shift, winces, and I immediately reach out, stopping myself just before touching her, remembering the wires, the tubes, the rules.
“Don’t move,” I whisper. “You’re okay. You’re safe.”
Her lips part, trembling. “Hurts…”
“I know.” My voice breaks. “I know it does.”
She swallows, eyes drifting, then fighting to stay open. “You… you came.”
A sound escapes me. Half laugh, half sob. “Of course I came. I never left.”
Her fingers twitch again, reaching for something. Reaching for me.
I slide my hand under hers, careful not to disturb the IV line. Her fingers curl weakly around mine.
It nearly destroys me.
“I thought…” She breathes shallowly. “Thought I… died.”
My throat closes. “Not on my watch.”
Her eyes slip halfway shut, then open again, fighting. “You… you said… you love me.”
I lean closer, forehead almost touching hers. “I meant it.”
She exhales a trembling breath. “I… love you too.”
The world tilts.
I grip her hand tighter, terrified she’ll slip away again. “Stay with me. Please.”
She tries to nod, but the motion is too much. Her eyes drift, her breath slows.
“Rachel…hey…stay awake.”
She tries. God, she tries.
Her lips part. “Don’t… leave me.”
“I won’t,” I whisper fiercely. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Her eyes finally close, not crashing, not fading, just exhausted, slipping under the sedation again.
The monitor steadies.
Her breathing evens.
She’s still here.
I bow my head, pressing her hand to my forehead, shaking with relief and terror and love.
“I’m right here,” I whisper. “I’m staying right here.”