Chapter Fifteen #3
Oliver’s gaze lingered on me, his lips pressed tight. After a brief hesitation, he moved into the chair beside me. “Ash.”
For a second he looked both younger and older than me.
His dark brown eyes were too bright, and a nauseating wave of shame rolled through me again.
He hadn’t deserved the silence I’d left him with, not after always being at my side.
He was the one person I trusted with anything work-related—until it was me fucking up.
Then I couldn’t bear the thought of hearing disappointment in his voice.
I exhaled hard. “I’m sorry for not—”
He shook his head, his hand settling on my shoulder. “I know. I know you, okay? I know it’s not about me.”
I bit the inside of my cheek. “It’s not that I don’t trust you.”
“I know, Ash. I know you do.”
He was still looking at me, but I couldn’t hold his gaze. I tried. I couldn’t. So I did the next best thing.
The honest thing.
“I just wanted to fix it.”
Oliver nodded, his grip tightening slightly. “I know,” he said again. “Let’s just put that aside, okay? We focus on this. I just don’t want you to—”
“I won’t.” My hand covered his, keeping it there. “Not this time.”
When I finally looked up again, Oliver was still watching me. A small smile tugged at his mouth. It wasn’t even close to happy. But it was real.
I answered with one of my own—fragile, unsteady, but there. We stayed like that a second longer, hands still clasped, the silence between us no longer oppressive.
Footsteps approached from the galley. Henry’s voice carried first, followed by Charlotte’s softer reply. Ethan appeared behind us, one hand braced briefly on the back of the seat as the plane jolted. He glanced at me—just a check-in—and I nodded once.
He didn’t come back to my side. Instead, he slid into the seat beside Henry, close enough that our feet could still touch if either of us moved. Charlotte settled across from us again, passing out coffee cups with quiet efficiency.
Oliver’s shoulder remained warm against mine.
This week, when I’d finally had to face him in person, I’d kept things light, deflecting anything real. I hadn’t been ready for him to see how much was already cracking beneath the surface. It had been easier to keep the distance. Easier—and far more isolating.
This felt so different. Like a wall lowering, brick by brick.
And knowing he was here—that all of them were—made the thought of stepping off this plane feel a fraction less suffocating. We still had to face the hospital. Our father. Whatever waited on the other side of those doors.
But we wouldn’t be walking into it alone.
Hours later, we were ushered into a waiting area just outside the ICU.
Not the main one—this was smaller, quieter, tucked behind a set of double doors that never stopped opening. Nurses passed through without looking at us. Doctors spoke in low voices that blurred together. Machines beeped somewhere beyond the walls, steady and impersonal.
We sat. And we waited.
Time stretched into something unrecognizable.
No one checked their phone anymore. No one spoke above a whisper.
Charlotte sat rigid beside Vivian, arms crossed tight over her chest. Oliver leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, staring at the floor.
Henry stood, paced once, then sat again—only to stand back up minutes later.
Ethan stayed beside me. Not touching constantly, not hovering—just there. Every so often, his hand would find my wrist, and I could breathe a little easier.
I kept staring at the doors.
My father was in there. Cut open—his chest split apart. His heart stopping and starting again under someone else’s hands.
When the doors opened one more time, we all startled. A man in green scrubs stepped through, surgical cap still on, mask hanging loose around his neck. He looked tired.
His eyes scanned the room once. “Mr. Langley?”
All of us were on our feet instantly.
“That’s us,” Henry said, his voice tight.
The surgeon nodded, already turning toward a quieter corner of the hall. “Let’s talk over here.”
That walk—those few steps—felt longer than the flight.
He stopped, folded his arms, and took a breath. “The surgery is over.”
My lungs burned with the sudden rush of air.
“Your father had a significant myocardial infarction,” he continued. “There were multiple blockages in three major coronary arteries. We performed a triple bypass.”
It felt like we were all clinging to that breath like a lifeline.
“The procedure itself was successful,” the surgeon said. “He’s stable right now, but he’s still in critical condition. The next twenty-four hours are vital.”
His eyes were on me, so I nodded once—an automatic gesture.
“He’s sedated and on a ventilator,” the surgeon went on. “That’s expected after a surgery like this. We’re keeping him asleep to reduce stress on his heart while his body adjusts.”
Charlotte’s hands went to her hips as she rocked slightly on her feet, her gaze flicking anxiously toward Oliver.
“Is he—” Oliver started, then stopped. Swallowed. “Is he going to be okay?”
“He’s where we want him to be, given the circumstances,” the surgeon said. “There were no major complications during the surgery. That’s good. But recovery will take time. Days in the ICU. Weeks in the hospital. Months after that.”
Ethan’s fingers curled into mine.
“Can we see him?” Henry asked.
The surgeon nodded. “Briefly. One at a time. He won’t wake up yet, but it can help.”
Help whom?
“Ash, you go.” Henry’s hand landed on my back, giving me a gentle nudge.
“This way,” the surgeon said.
My fingers slipped from Ethan’s as I followed him past the doors.
Inside, he handed me off to a nurse who guided me through the ICU—past rows of glass walls and softly glowing monitors.
The antiseptic smell hit me square in the chest, my pulse spiking as she turned the corner and yet another room came into view.
She didn’t let me inside. Just close enough to see him through the glass.
He lay in the bed, surrounded by wires and tubes. The ventilator whirred beside him as his chest rose and fell mechanically. He looked smaller like that. Just a man—impossible to please, to read, to reach—lying there, broken open, kept alive by machines. My father.
My gaze dropped to the bandage across his chest. It rose and fell with his breathing as my hand lifted to the glass.
Up.
And down.
Up.
And down.
A wave of relief passed through me, loosening the death grip fear had wrapped around my heart.
He’s alive.
The world tilted back into place.
“Hello, old man,” I whispered, my breath fogging the glass.
He was alive.
I held onto that.