30. Chapter 30
Jace
I burst through the hospital doors, my heart pounding so hard I can feel it in my fingertips.
The fluorescent lights overhead buzz with an intensity that makes me wince—too bright, too harsh, too everything.
The cacophony of sounds hits me all at once: phones ringing, people talking, the squeak of rubber-soled shoes against linoleum.
I force myself to breathe through it, to focus past the sensory overload.
Wren. Find Wren.
I spot Theo at the reception desk, his voice rising with each word. His normally perfect hair is disheveled, like he's been running his hands through it repeatedly. His tie is askew. These details register with crystal clarity while the rest of the room blurs into background noise.
"—don't understand," Theo is saying, his hands planted firmly on the counter. "She has to be here. The ambulance brought her in over an hour ago."
The receptionist—a middle-aged woman with tight curls and glasses on a chain—looks unimpressed by his intensity. "Sir, as I've explained three times now, I cannot release patient information without proper identification."
I approach quickly, my shoes making a pattern against the floor that I count unconsciously. Seven steps to reach them. Seven is a good number. Solid. Predictable.
"This is bullshit," Theo snaps, slamming his hand on the counter. "We're all she has! And you won't even tell us where she is?"
"Sir, I understand you're upset, but hospital policy—"
"I don't give a fuck about your policy!" Theo's voice rises, drawing stares from the waiting area. "A woman we love is somewhere in this hospital, injured, alone, and you're hiding behind bureaucratic—"
"Theo," I say quietly, placing a hand on his arm. His anger is making it harder for me to think, to process. The lights seem brighter now, the sounds louder. I need him to calm down so I can figure this out. "This isn't helping."
He turns, relief washing over his face when he sees me. "They won't tell me anything. Say they can't find her in the system."
I turn to the receptionist, forcing myself to make eye contact even though it makes my skin crawl. Eye contact is important in these situations. People respond better when you look at them directly. I've learned this through years of careful observation.
"Our... friend," I begin, the word feeling inadequate but safer than alternatives, "was brought in by ambulance. Her name is Wren Maddox."
The receptionist sighs, fingers clicking on her keyboard. "Let me try again, what is the spelling?"
"W-R-E-N. M-A-D-D-O-X." I enunciate each letter carefully, watching her type.
"Date of birth?"
I freeze. I don't know Wren's birthday. How can I not know her birthday? We've been living together for weeks, sharing a bed, sharing our bodies, and I don't know when she was born?
Theo jumps in. "July 17th, 2002."
The receptionist types, then shakes her head. "I'm sorry, but there's no Wren Maddox in our system," she says, looking genuinely apologetic.
The words don't make sense at first. No Wren Maddox? But Maya...
Then it hits me with the force of a physical blow. "Try Lilliana Cain," I say, my voice dropping to barely above a whisper.
Theo's head whips toward me, eyes wide with surprise that I would reveal this. But what choice do we have? If she's in the hospital, her doctors need to know who she is, what medications she might be on, her medical history.
Her eyes widen slightly—recognition flashing across her features. The Cain name still makes headlines occasionally, still carries the weight of her brother's infamy.
"One moment," she says, typing again, her eyebrows lifting slightly. "Yes, that matches some information the paramedics collected from a bystander. Miss Cain was brought in via the ER about an hour ago. She's currently in the ICU on the third floor.”
My heart stutters in my chest. ICU. Intensive Care Unit. The words echo in my mind, each syllable heavy with terrible implications.
"Can we see her?" Theo asks, his voice cracking.
The receptionist shakes her head. "I'm afraid not right now. The notes indicate she hasn’t regained consciousness and may be in surgery.
Head trauma cases are taken very seriously.
" She types something else, then adds, "But you're welcome to wait in the third-floor waiting area.
The doctors will come speak with you when they can. "
"Surgery?" Theo repeats, the color draining from his face.
Surgery. The word hits me like a physical blow. My tapping increases in tempo, my breath coming faster. Surgery means serious. Surgery means critical. Surgery means—
"What kind of surgery?" Theo demands, his voice tight with barely controlled panic.
The receptionist's expression softens slightly. "I'm afraid I don't have those details. Head up to the third floor, take a right when you exit the elevator. Dr. Reynolds is the attending physician. I’ll have someone let him know you’re there."
"Thank you," I say, genuine gratitude in my voice. "Thank you."
Theo is already moving toward the elevators, and I hurry to catch up with him. The doors slide closed, leaving us alone in the small metal box. The sudden quiet is almost as jarring as the noise had been.
"This is our fault," Theo says, staring at the illuminated numbers above the door. "We drove her away. We lied to her."
I can't argue with him. The weight of our deception sits heavy on my shoulders. "We thought we were protecting her."
"We were protecting ourselves," he counters bitterly. "From having to watch her be afraid again. From having to deal with her knowing the truth."
The elevator doors open on the third floor, revealing another fluorescent-lit hallway.
We follow the signs to the ICU waiting area—a small room with uncomfortable-looking chairs and outdated magazines scattered on low tables.
A television mounted in the corner plays a news program with the volume set low.
We're the only ones here. Theo paces the length of the room while I sink into a chair in the corner, as far from the television as possible. The constant movement on the screen is distracting, making it harder to organize my thoughts.
I press my fingertips against my thigh again. Trying to center myself, trying to process the swirling emotions threatening to overwhelm my system.
"What if she doesn't wake up?" Theo's voice breaks the silence, giving voice to my deepest fear. "What if the last thing she remembers about us is that we lied to her?"
"Don't," I say sharply. "She'll wake up. She has to."
"But if she doesn't—"
"She will." I can't entertain the alternative. My brain simply won't process the possibility of a world without Wren in it. Without her quiet strength, her expressive hands, her soft laughter that somehow fills a room more completely than any loud sound could.
Theo finally stops pacing and drops into the chair beside me, his body a study in controlled tension. "I never told her I love her," he says, his voice barely above a whisper. "I never said the words."
"Neither did I," I admit, the confession painful in my throat.
"Why?" he asks, looking at me with genuine bewilderment, his eyes glistening. "Why didn't we say it? We both feel it. Have for weeks."
I consider the question, trying to analyze my own hesitation with the same precision I'd apply to a complex algorithm.
"I was afraid," I finally say. "Not of the feeling itself, but of how it might change things.
Of putting pressure on her when she was still healing.
Of saying it wrong, at the wrong time, in the wrong way.
And maybe a little afraid of her rejecting me. "
"Same," Theo says, running a hand through his already disheveled hair. "Plus, you know, the whole weird triangle thing. I wasn't sure if saying it would mess up the balance somehow."
I understand exactly what he means. The three of us have been navigating uncharted territory from the beginning—finding our way without a map, creating our own rules as we go. There's no guidebook for what we're doing, no precedent to follow.
"If she wakes up—" Theo starts.
"When," I correct him firmly. "When she wakes up."
"When she wakes up," he amends, "I'm telling her. No more waiting for the right moment. No more holding back."
I nod, making the same silent promise to myself. No more hesitation. No more fear of saying the wrong thing. She deserves to know how deeply she is loved, how completely she has transformed our lives.
Time stretches endlessly in the waiting room.
Minutes feel like hours as we sit in silence, each lost in our own thoughts.
My mind keeps replaying this morning—the hurt in her eyes when she discovered our deception, the way her hands trembled as she signed her accusations.
I should have told her the truth weeks ago.
Should have trusted her strength, her resilience.
Instead, I treated her like something fragile, something that needed to be sheltered from reality. In trying to protect her, I undermined the very autonomy she's fought so hard to reclaim.
A doctor in blue scrubs pushes through the double doors, his expression unreadable. "Family of Lilliana Cain?" he asks, glancing between us.
We both stand immediately. "Yes," Theo says without hesitation. "How is she?"
The doctor—Dr. Reynolds, according to his ID badge—gives us an appraising look. "You're family?"
"We're her partners," I say, the word feeling both strange and right on my tongue. "She doesn't have family. Not anymore." I pause, then add, "And she goes by Wren Maddox now. That's her legal name."
Dr. Reynolds nods once, making a small notation on his tablet.
"Miss Maddox is stable," he says, and I feel my knees go weak with relief.
"Fortunately, the CT scan showed no significant bleeding.
She hit her head on the concrete when she collapsed, but we're just monitoring for swelling at this point. "
"Collapsed?" Theo asks. "What caused her to collapse in the first place?"