17. Audra
Just after midnight the next day…
"Audra!"
My eyes snap open.
"Audra! Audra!"
I bolt upright, heart slamming against my ribs. "Mom?"
I'm already out of bed before I'm fully awake, stumbling toward the door.
"Audra—!" Her voice breaks.
Panic slices through me. I rush into the hallway and find her leaning against the wall. Her face is pale. Too pale. Her right arm jerks uncontrollably.
"Mom?"
She slides. I catch her just before she hits the floor. Her weight collapses into me.
"Stroke…" she slurs. "I'm having a stroke…"
Ice floods my veins.
"No. No, no—look at me." My hands cup her face. "Mom, look at me. Can you smile?"
Her lips form a clown's mask, but both ends rise.
"Blink. Can you blink?"
She does. But slow. Too slow. A door slams open behind me. I don't have to turn. I feel him.
"Gabe!" I scream. "Call 911!"
"Too long," he replies, already moving.
I glance back, he's in nothing but boxer shorts, gun in hand, eyes sharp, awake, dangerous. Like he went from sleep to war in a second. Men rush in behind him. Guards. Weapons drawn. Scanning.
"Clear," one of them calls.
Gabe doesn't even look at them.
My mother sags harder against me.
"Stay with me," I whisper, my voice shaking despite everything. "Mom, stay with me?—"
She doesn't answer.
"Let's go," Gabe says.
With a few quick strides, he reaches us. He crouches, and before I can protest, he lifts Mom into his arms like she weighs nothing. Effortless. Like he's done this before. Too many times. I scramble up, grabbing her hand.
"I'm right here," I tell her, even though I don't know if she can hear me.
"Get the car," Gabe barks over his shoulder as he moves. "Now."
Footsteps thunder. "Yes, boss!"
"And alert the hospital," he adds, already striding down the hallway. "We're coming in hot."
The words hit me. Hospital. This is real. This is happening. My heart is pounding so hard I can barely think. I keep pace beside him, barefoot, barely aware of anything except Mom's hand in mine. Cold. So cold.
"Mom, stay with me," I beg again. "Please. Please don't?—"
My throat tightens. No. Not again. Not like this.
I can't lose her, too. We reach the elevator.
It's already open. One of the bodyguards takes his jacket off and puts it around me.
I nod a quick thanks; that's all I can do.
Not that it matters right now, nothing matters, only the thought that I can't lose mom too.
Everything moves too fast. The doors close.
We're descending. Gabe stands there, holding her steady, eyes forward, focused.
Unshaken. Like this is just another problem to solve.
Completely uncaring that he's only wearing his boxershorts.
I cling to my mother's hand, and my entire world narrows to her breathing. To the slight rise and fall of her chest. To the fear clawing its way up my throat. I glance at him. At the man holding her like he won't let anything happen. For one terrifying second, I believe it.
We rush through the casino. Lights. Noise.
People. It's all wrong. Too bright. Too loud.
Too alive. For a split second, I have a déjà vu moment, where I'm sitting back in the car after I was abducted.
Seeing life just pass by outside, while mine was heading into devastation.
Just like then, my world is collapsing, and everything around me just… keeps going.
The valet lane is chaos. Cars are honking.
Voices are raised in loud laughter, shouting.
People stand and stare with their phones out.
Flashes. I want to scream at them. Don't they see?
Don't they see something is wrong? But I don't. I can't. Because all I see is my mother in Gabe's arms. He doesn't slow down.
Doesn't hesitate. A sleek black car is already waiting with the engine running and the doors open. Everything bends around him.
He lowers her into the backseat carefully, like she might break. I slide in right after, pulling her into me, cradling her. "I'm here," I whisper, even though my voice is shaking now. "I'm right here."
Her head lolls against my shoulder. Her arm jerks again, violently. Uncontrollably. She tries to hold it down with her other hand.
"Au… au…" she mumbles. "Hurts…"
"What hurts?" I ask quickly, brushing her hair back. "Mom, what hurts?"
She just moans. My heart stutters.
"Mom, can you tell me what's happening?" My voice cracks. "Please, talk to me."
"Leg…" she slurs. "Numb…"
Oh God.
Oh God.
The door slams. The car lurches forward.
We're moving. Fast. But it doesn't feel fast enough.
Nothing feels fast enough. And yet way too fast. I tighten my grip on her.
She feels so small. So fragile. Not the woman who drove me insane my whole life.
Not the woman who fought every doctor, every pill, every piece of advice.
She's just… my mom.
Suddenly, I can't breathe. Not again. The thought shoots through me like an electric bolt. Hot and painful. I can't lose her. Not like this. Not right after Pete. The image slams into me. The gun. The blood. The way he slumped. Gone. Just like that.
"No," I whisper under my breath. "No, no, no?—"
I press my forehead against hers.
"You're not leaving me," I plead in a breaking voice. "Do you hear me? You're not?—"
My throat closes. I can't finish. Because what if she does? What if I'm sitting here, holding her, and this is the last time? No.
I squeeze my eyes shut for a second. Force it down. I can't fall apart. Not now. She needs me. She needs me. The car takes a sharp turn. I barely register it. All I feel is her weight against me. The uneven rhythm of her breathing. The way her fingers twitch weakly in mine.
"Audra." His voice cuts through everything. It's so low and steady. Grounded.
I look up. Gabe is twisted in his seat, watching me. Watching us. "It will be okay."
Something in me wants to snap. He can't know that.
He doesn't know anything. People don't just say that.
But… his eyes. They're calm, filled with a certainty that even death won't defy him.
Like chaos doesn't touch him. Like he's already decided the outcome.
I hate that in the middle of this—of all of this—his voice steadies something in me.
"I can't lose her," I whisper, the words slipping out before I can stop them. I don't even know if I'm talking to him. Or to myself. Or to whatever is listening. His gaze doesn't waver.
"You won't." It's a statement. Simple and certain.
Like a promise. Like a fact. My fingers tighten around my mother's hand.
I nod. Just once. Because I need to believe it.
I need something to hold onto. Even if it's him.
The car keeps speeding through the city.
Lights blur past the windows. Sirens sound somewhere in the distance.
Or maybe just in my head. I hold on to my mother like I can anchor her here by sheer force.
Her breathing. Her warmth. Her hand in mine.
And my mind betrays me as it flashes back to when she had her first stroke.
"Pete," I said in a shaking voice. "I think she's having a stroke."
His face went white. Completely white.
"Oh my God—oh my God—what do we do?" he had panicked, already fumbling for his phone. "Call 911—yeah—911?—"
Neither of us would have been able to drive.
Not like that. Not with our hands shaking.
Our hearts in our throats. It's not fair to compare.
It isn't. Gabe has a driver. Men. Resources.
Control. Of course, this looks different.
Of course, it feels different. Still, the thought is there. As uninvited as it is persistent.
I followed the ambulance that night. My hands were gripping the steering wheel so tight my knuckles hurt. Pete sat beside me, trying—God, he was trying—to be strong. For me. For both of us. But I remember thinking: I have to hold it together. For him too.
That was the first time. The second… I went alone. I swallow. The memory sits heavier. Quieter. Pete went to work. We needed the money. He was pushing for that promotion. Working late. Taking extra shifts. Doing everything right.
"I'll meet you there," he said.
But he didn't. I sat in that hospital room by myself.
Waiting. Watching machines. Listening to doctors.
Alone. I blink hard. Force myself back to now.
Back to the present. To this car. To her in my arms. To…
him. I look up. Gabe is still turned toward me.
Watching. Not panicking. Not rushing his words.
Not trying to fill the silence with meaningless reassurances.
He's just there. Steady. Certain. Like nothing in this world could shake him.
Something inside me, something tight, frantic, and clawing, just… loosens.
Not completely. Not even close. But enough. Enough that I can breathe. Enough that my hands stop trembling quite so badly. I don't understand it. I don't understand him. I shouldn't feel this. Not now. Not after… But I do.
The car barely stops before the door is ripped open. Cold air hits my face. Voices. Movement. Bright lights.
"We're here," someone announces.
Gabe is already moving. He's wearing shoes, pants, and a shirt, and I barely notice that the driver is missing all three. During one burst of reality, I pull the jacket one of the guards gave me closer, aware suddenly that I'm still in my PJs and barefoot.
Gabe doesn't wait. Doesn't hesitate. He lifts my mother out of the car and strides straight toward the ER entrance.
I scramble after him, still clutching her hand, half-running to keep up.
The doors slide open. Noise crashes into us.
Phones ringing. People talking. Someone crying.
The sharp, sterile smell of antiseptic. Chaos in someone else's life.
Gabe doesn't slow. He walks straight to the desk, past waiting people in line.
He slams his fist down. The sound cracks through the room like a gunshot.
The receptionist stares at him with wide eyes.
"Doctor. Now."
Everything stops. Not completely. But enough. Heads turn. Voices falter. A nurse freezes mid-step. The woman behind the desk blinks up at him, startled.
A security guard starts forward. "Sir, you can't?—"
One of Gabe's men steps in front of him. He gives him just the smallest shake of the head. That's all it takes. The guard stops. Doesn't argue. Doesn't push. Just… backs off.
I should be horrified. Appalled. This isn't how things are supposed to work.
But I've been here too many times. Sat in too many waiting rooms. Watched too many people suffer while numbers are called and forms are filled out.
I'm not proud of what's happening, but this is my mom. I'd do anything for her.
And this? This speed. This immediate attention. As wrong as it is, I can't help it. I'm impressed. Within seconds, people move. Fast. A gurney appears. Hands reach for my mother.
"Ma'am, we've got you?—"
Gabe doesn't let go immediately. His eyes lock on the doctor rushing toward us.
"She's having a stroke," he barks in a cold, controlled voice. "Right side weakness. Slurred speech. Pain."
The doctor nods, already working. "Get her in a room. Now."
They transfer her. I follow. Barely aware of anything except her voice, "Au… au… it hurts…"
"I'm here," I whisper, gripping her hand tighter. "I'm right here."
We're moving again. Down a hallway. Through a door. And suddenly, we're in a private room. Just like that. Machines and monitors sit there, ready to be connected to my mom.
I remember one time I hit my head rollerblading. Mom drove me to the ER. While a compassionate nurse handed me a towel to press against the bleeding, Mom filled out form after form. Handed over her credit card. It seemed like hours before I was shuffled into a hallway. I was nine.
Here, a nurse is already wrapping a cuff around her arm. Another preps a needle.
"Blood pressure is high," the first nurse announces. "210/125."
"Let's get labs. Full panel. Neuro consult," the doctor orders. "Prep imaging."
Everything moves at once. My mom cries out as they tighten the cuff. "Au! It hurts—It hurts?—"
"I know, I know," I whisper, brushing her hair back. Used to her complaints. "It's okay?—"
She jerks when the needle goes in. Screams. "Stop! Stop?—!"
"Hold her steady," the nurse demands.
"I've got her," I say quickly, even as my own hands tremble. Gabe steps closer. Too close. Towering. His presence fills the room in a way that has nothing to do with size.
"Do not hurt her," he warns.
The nurse freezes for half a second.
Then nods quickly. "We're being as gentle as possible."
"Be better," he replies.
No raised voice. No theatrics. Just… expectation.
They move faster. More carefully. More aware. I look at him. Really look at him. At the way the room bends around him. At the way people respond without question. At the way he stands there like nothing—Nothing—is out of his control. And I?—
I hate that a part of me is relieved he's here.