Chapter 3
Delaney
Was that real or a figment of my imagination?
I was just talking to him. Just arguing, yelling, begging for mercy on my parents’ behalf, and now . . . now he could be lying on the ground dead in front of me. Did I cause that? Distract him from watching where he was going? I’ll never forgive myself.
Oh God. I called him an asshole so many times.
It’s one of the last things he heard before .
. . Remorse ravages my gut as my heart starts beating out of my chest. I suck in a harsh breath as a thought occurs.
I’m pure evil, but it’s too late to save my soul.
I can’t believe it would even cross my mind.
I stare ahead at the scene playing out before me, and at the center of it is the man who signs the final deed to close the deal.
The only thing that would keep that jerk from signing is if he’s—Delaney!
Oh God, this is not who I am.
With no sound of sirens on the horizon, I can’t just leave him there to die all alone, or worse, surrounded by strangers. I’m no friend to him, but now I’m obligated to make sure he gets help in some twist of fate that has tied our lives together.
Without a thought, my feet move slowly at first, but I’m driven faster by desperate fear.
My heart is still racing as concern takes over.
I push around a guy holding a box fan in his hands and past a lady sipping her coffee over the body.
I kneel beside my newfound enemy and run the tips of my fingers gently over a scrape on his face. “Warner? Warner, can you hear me?”
When he doesn’t react, I look up through watery eyes and see that the woman with her coffee is now filming as if she wants to memorialize the moment. Anger courses through my veins, and I shout, “Have you called 911?”
“They’re on their way,” replies a woman next to her, holding a grocery bag in one hand and her phone in the other. You’d think it was a planned exhibition and not a man’s life on the line by how many phones are out and filming.
I return my attention to the man who showed me no kindness or understanding toward my plight, and I offer it to him. Touching his shoulder, I look him over only for my chest to tighten when I discover blood in his hair. “He needs help.” I look up to scan the crowd. “Anyone? Please.”
As if I willed it, the crowd parts as two emergency techs cut through and kneel beside him. “What happened?” asks a paramedic in a blue uniform. He drops a medical bag beside him, looking at me as he lowers his ear to Warner’s mouth to listen for him breathing. Oh God, is he breathing?
He checks for a pulse while I scramble for an answer. “He was hit by a car, one of those driverless cars. It stopped and then drove off.” My words are rushed like my heartbeat that’s threatening to leap from my chest. “Is he alive?”
“He has a pulse.” Thank God. Another paramedic maneuvers to secure his neck in a brace. “Name?” the first paramedic asks me.
“Warner.” I pause, his last name at the top of my shitlist for the past week as I tried to end this nightmare deal he’s doing to destroy my parents’ restaurant, but my mind momentarily blanks under pressure.
“Um. . .” I glance up at the building towering over us.
I can’t see any names on the side of the building, but the metal letters before the receptionist flash like gold in my mind.
“Landers Ventures. Landers. Warner Landers.”
Another medic comes through carrying a stretcher and places it on the ground beside him. “On the count of three,” he says to the others.
As soon as he’s safely on it, they stand together, lifting the stretcher into the air and cutting back through the crowd.
I rush through before the opening closes, sticking close to their heels.
I'm unsure what to do in this situation, so I'm following as if I have the right. It’s self-serving, and he’d hate it, but that thought only inspires me to stay closer.
Warner is loaded into the ambulance, and then the paramedic who asked his name turns back to see me aimlessly standing there. Holding the door in his hand, he asks, “Are you going with him?”
“Yes,” I answer with no other excuse than I replied without thinking. I don’t owe Warner a thing, and in fact, he owes me, but I’m climbing in like a besotted fangirl. I sit where I’m told as the door is slammed shut.
What am I doing?
I glance toward the tiny back windows as if they’re an option to escape when I’m found out.
What if he wakes up?
That would be great. Ideal. I can disappear as soon as we arrive at the hospital knowing I didn’t cause his death. Oh God. I close my eyes and drop my head into my hands, wishing the events of this afternoon had played out differently.
How will I explain who I am?
I’m the girl who practically assaulted—verbally, of course—this .
. . this . . . this jerk of a CEO, causing him to look back when I yelled “Hey” like a psychopath on the street to get his attention.
I couldn’t bear the thought of him getting the last word in, so I was going to outdo him.
That sounds awful, even to me, and I know the reasoning behind it.
I’m a horrible person. They might as well call the cops on me now.
Holding out my wrists, I’m mentally letting them lock me and throw away the key.
“Ma’am.”
I look at the EMT on the other side of Warner . . . Do I really have a right to call him by his first name? I’m acting like we actually know each other. We don’t. He’s the asshole who’s—“Miss?”
I bring my gaze from Mr. Landers (that’s better) to the EMT again. “Yes?”
“His birthday?”
The gasp of shock strikes my vocal cords and dries my throat. I glance at Warner again, feeling worse than I did before, and that was already pretty awful. “It’s his birthday?”
“I’m asking the date of his birth. When is it?”
“Oh.” I sit straight again, my mind fumbling through the question like I might stumble upon the answer.
“I’m not sure,” I reply quieter. How is it possible for me to feel embarrassed that I don’t know this stranger’s birthday?
I have no idea, but I do. “Maybe he has his wallet with him. We can check.” I feel his pant pocket on the side closest to me, hitting something hard . . . “I think it’s here.”
The EMT stares at me with a brow so furrowed it might be a pinched nerve. “Do you know this man?”
“Do I know this man?” I laugh nervously. “Do I know this man?”
“Do you?” he asks again, his gaze unrelenting in its severity.
I pause. This is my stop, a chance to hop off this lie before it’s too late. “Of course, I know him.” I signal with my hand to his lifeless body. “It’s Warner Landers of Landers Ventures.”
The medic blinks at me, then narrows his eyes. “Okay, but you don’t know his birthday?”
“We had a business relationship, so we hadn’t gotten to birthdays.” I glance down at his wedding ring finger. No ring. No tan lines. No marks left behind by someone who was sneaking around without one. “He’s not married.”
“No one is accusing you of anything. We’re trying to get as much information on him as we can for the file.”
He looks at his e-pad and starts jotting down some notes. It’s the way he peeks up at me like he’s now concerned for Warner’s safety, from me, that has me shifting in my seat, and looking toward the light, a.k.a. the two windows at the back, and ask, “Are we almost there?”
“Yes,” he replies. “What’s your name?”
I’m not falling into that trap. No way can I give my real name.
If Warner finds out I was here, that deal is as good as signed.
But my brain is blank of names except for some unknown reason “Delaney Landers” rolls off the tip of my tongue and onto the body of the man passed out between us.
Or was he knocked unconscious? What am I doing? Holy hell, I need to get out of here.
“You have the same last name as Mr. Landers but don’t know his birthday?”
“Coincidence.”
“I should say so,” he mutters under his breath just as the ambulance comes to a hard stop. He’s out of his seat and helping to push the doors open. The chaos of the moment leaves me there to climb out last and follow them inside.
A nurse comes up beside me and says, “We’re taking him back to be examined.
A doctor will come out to discuss if surgery is needed and the next steps.
” She guides me into a glass box full of chairs, old TVs mounted on the walls, and a few others scattered about.
“You can wait here for more information regarding your husband.”
“Okay—wait, what? He’s not my . . .” The nurse has already disappeared down the hall.
I stand there, unsure of what to do. Leaving would be best. I have no business being here in the first place.
But now he’s all alone with his friend waiting at a bar for him to arrive somewhere in the financial district.
I flop into a chair, knowing I can’t leave him like this.
Warner Landers is a jerk, but he’s mine to deal with until his family or friend comes to claim him.
I drop my head into my hands. The image of him getting hit plays over in my head, causing me to open my eyes and sit upright. Is this karma getting her dues?
What a mess.
But more so, I feel awful that I’m the one who is here for him when someone who matters could be instead. I should try to contact someone in his life. But how?
An idea comes to mind, giving me an inkling of hope. I pull my phone out of the purse situated on my hip and call his office. “Landers Ventures.”
Looking around, I keep my voice low so no one else in the waiting room can hear, “Hi, Mr. Landers’s office, please.”
“He’s not available. Would you like to leave a message?”
“Is there anyone I can speak to?” I hate the panic in my voice. Taking a quick breath, I then whisper, “Please.”
“Unfortunately, they’re not available. I can send you to his assistant’s voicemail. She’ll forward your message to him.”
I really don’t think telling the receptionist I got her boss killed is a good idea. “I’ll call back. Thank you.” I hang up and search for his name online. Maybe I’ll find his parents or a sibling, or a girlfriend. I don’t care who, as long as I get someone who cares about him here to the hospital.
“Mrs. Landers?”
I scroll the screen, hoping to find one person. That’s all I need. Come on. There must be someone he's close to, but perhaps he’s only close to his friend on the elevator. I can’t say I’d be surprised. He’s intolerable.
And then I land on — “Mrs. Landers.” My shoulder is touched, startling me and causing me to look up.
A nurse smiles at me, but it’s full of sympathy and not reassurance.
“We’re still checking for injuries to his head, but your husband will need his arm reset and to stay overnight for observation.
We’re going to run a few more tests to make sure we didn’t miss any internal injuries and reexamine his head around the cut he sustained.
It may not sound like it, but overall, he’s very lucky. ”
I stand, setting my phone on the chair I abandoned. “What is the surgery for?”
“His right arm is broken. We’ll discharge him with instructions on how to care for it. No broken ribs, surprisingly. Though I suspect he’ll be sore for the next few days, possibly up to a week. But again, we’ll send him home with instructions when he leaves.”
I sit there blinking at her as I absorb the information like I’ll need it later.
This is the out I’ve needed. I’m not his wife.
I’m not his girlfriend or friend, or family or anyone familiar with him in life.
I’m just a girl who came to beg him not to do a dirty deed to my family.
But for some reason, those words stay glued to the roof of my mouth and not a word is uttered.
She says, “Do you have any questions?”
“No.”
There’s that smile that makes me feel like I have a stake in his life. She feels sorry for me. I hate when people feel that way, but I also can’t walk away and leave him. Even if he is an asshole in real life.
She steps back and rubs her upper arms as if she’s cold.
It is cold in here. I hadn’t had a chance to notice until now.
She says, “We’ll let you know when he’s settled in his room after surgery and recovery, but you have time to go home if you need to.
It will be at least six hours or more before you’ll be able to see him. ”
When she walks out of the room, I pick up my phone and sit down again.
Why am I waiting? I know why. I feel bad for him.
Other than his friend, who was probably only a colleague, knowing Warner, or someone being paid to hang out with him, I might be the only person who cares about what happens to him.
Does he deserve my kindness? Not really. But will I make sure everything with his surgery and recovery goes well? Sure will.
I can despise him all I want, but he’s still a person who needs someone in his corner. And I’m the one still standing here like I belong.