Chapter 43
“Colour My Heart” - Charlotte OC
Maeve
There are a few moments in life that define us. They reveal who we truly are underneath, what’s rotting inside our core—or flourishing, if we’re lucky. They tell us all we need to know about ourselves.
The call comes at three in the morning. I’ve only been asleep for a few hours, and my voice sounds groggy when I answer the phone. I don’t even look at the name on the screen, just mumble hello and hope whoever it is has a damn good reason for waking me up.
You’d think I would know. I should know. People don’t call at three in the morning to chat. They don’t call to tell you they’re engaged or that their husband is a cheating asshole. They sure as hell don’t call to gossip.
There’s only one reason they call, and it’s never a good one.
Subconsciously, I know this, but I’m still too foggy from sleep to prepare myself for the worst. But the second my mother’s voice sounds through the line, the last particle of grogginess vanishes.
“Mum, what’s wrong?” I say, sitting up straight. I can’t even make out what she’s saying through the sobbing on the other end.
My mother doesn’t cry. She certainly doesn’t sob. People think Italians are passionate and full of life, but my father has trained all of that out of her. At least he had, but it turns out some moments have the power to undo even thirty years of instruction.
“It’s Bash,” she wails, and my blood runs cold.
“What’s happened?” I’m already out of bed, fumbling for the light switch and grabbing the nearest piece of clothing I can find.
Through the jumble of words, I make out the name of a hospital. I disconnect the call after assuring her I’m on my way. My mind whirls, imagining my baby brother on a hospital gurney, bloody, unconscious, or worse. What if he’s dead?
Nausea floods my stomach, and I run to the bathroom to vomit. When I’m done heaving, I wipe my mouth and brush my teeth. The mirror reveals just how terrible I look—matted hair, bleary eyes, no makeup. But for once in my life, I don’t care.
After throwing a few things into my bag, I head to the hospital, praying that Bash is okay but preparing myself for the worst.
In the car, I make the call without a second thought. It feels like the most natural thing in the world.
“Maeve?” Pierce’s voice is full of gravel, and I know I’ve woken him. I also know he won’t care. “What’s wrong?”
“Bash was in an accident,” I say, doing a better job than my mother at keeping my emotions in check, although the gigantic lump in my throat from unshed tears makes it difficult to form words without breaking down.
“Where are you?”
“Frederick Memorial,” I say as the hospital comes into view ahead of me.
“I’m on my way.” Pierce ends the call, and I drop my phone into my purse, desperate to get to my family, but also dreading this with all of my heart.
As the automatic door swish open, I squint against the bright lights of the lobby.
Seriously, has anyone ever thought of making hospitals a little less hostile?
Maybe some mood lighting, a soothing playlist, furniture that doesn’t look like it was ordered from a catalog?
Evidently, they’ve never heard of ambiance.
After receiving Bash’s room number from the receptionist, I ride the lift to the eighth floor, praying he will still be alive when I get there, that this isn’t the thing that destroys my family for good.
* * *
Vivienne and I are sitting on a vinyl sofa in the waiting area while our mother paces the length of the room. My father is somewhere in the building, probably making demands of the staff and reminding them of how many millions the Foundation has donated to this place over the years.
They haven’t let me in to see Bash yet, and I’m not sure if I want to go even when I’m allowed.
I want to remember him the way he’s always been—magnetic, charming, devious—not strapped to a bed with tubes sticking out of his arms and face.
I don’t know if I can handle seeing my baby brother like that.
Viv reaches for my hand, and I remind myself that this must be even harder for her than it is for me.
Not only is Bash her twin, but she was the one who found him after the accident, the one who had to call our parents and tell them.
I want to ask her what happened, but I can’t make her relive it, not now.
The only thing I know, which I suspected the second my mother called, is that street racing was involved.
I squeeze Vivienne’s hand between mine, conveying bravery I don’t feel.
“Where’s Cassian?” Considering his proximity to the accident, my money is on him being who Bash was racing.
With his father being the estate manager at Belgrave Park, it is only natural that Cassian and the twins have become inseparable over the years.
My sister shrugs, looking delicate and pale in the black hoodie that’s swallowing her up, which probably belongs to Cass. While I’m not excited by the prospect of her spending time with someone who will likely wind up in prison, he did stay with both her and Bash after the accident.
“I think he went to find coffee,” she says.
I’m on the verge of pointing out the coffee maker on the other side of the room when I hear footsteps in the hall.
Hoping it might be a doctor, I turn and see Pierce approaching instead, and suddenly everything inside me shifts.
I feel relief flood my nervous system, like a kid who has just located their parent after being lost at the grocery store.
My feet are carrying me down the tiled corridor before I even realize I’ve left my chair. Pierce opens his arms to catch me, and the second I’m in them, the world finally—blessedly—stops spinning.
His chest is warm and solid, his scent clean and masculine. He wraps himself around me, as if by doing so, he can take away all of the pain and hurt.
Several minutes pass as he holds me. Around us, nurses are scurrying back and forth, their trainers squeaking on the smooth floor. It feels like watching pedestrians in the rain while you’re safe and dry inside a car.
Finally, I ease my grip on his torso slightly.
He strokes my hair, his palm big enough to cup the entire back of my head. “How is he?” he says softly.
Pressing my face into his T-shirt, I sniff. “He’s still unconscious. The doctor said—” My voice breaks, and I fight to regain control. “He said they’re going to do surgery as soon as he’s stable.”
“Fuck,” Pierce mutters under his breath. “How are you holding up?” He tilts my chin up so he can inspect my face.
“I’m okay.” I swipe at the fresh tears trailing down my cheeks, slightly embarrassed to have him see me this way, but at the same time caring a whole lot less than I would if it were anyone else. “I’m okay now.”
How can I put into words that I wasn’t okay until he got here, that even just calling him soothed some of the anxiety in my heart?
How do I explain the way I want to stay in his embrace forever, or that the thought of him leaving makes dread well up in my stomach?
I’ve never felt this way before, and it terrifies the hell out of me to be feeling it now, to be feeling it with him.