Chapter 24
Isabel
Not hearing from Nate wears me out in ways I can't explain. It’s like my heart is a violin string pulled too tight—one wrong move, and it’ll snap.
I try to focus all my energy on fundraising, on work, on anything that will keep my hands busy and my thoughts from spiraling.
But that bad feeling… it clings to me like a shadow.
I keep brushing it off, calling myself dramatic, but it’s there. Constant. Heavy.
I never understood how soldiers’ wives endured the wait.
The not-knowing. The silence. Now, I do.
They have all my respect—because this limbo is torture.
Two months. That’s how long it’s been since I hugged Nate.
His calls and text were my lifeline but that didn’t make life easy.
Sixty-two nights of staring at the ceiling, clutching a pillow, and wondering if he’s under the same stars.
Sixty-two days of smiling in public and screaming in silence.
This morning, I woke up shaking. My T-shirt was damp with sweat, and I was tangled in the sheets like I’d fought something in my sleep.
A nightmare? Or was I just cold? Either way, the moment I opened my eyes, dread sat on my chest like a weight.
Something is wrong. I can feel it in my bones, in the tremble of my fingers as I hold my coffee, untouched and cold hours later.
I can’t eat either—my stomach’s in knots.
And yet, I have to function. Tonight is the fundraiser for the Women’s Anti-Violence Centre.
I’ve poured so much into this cause—because I know what it's like to feel small, to feel voiceless, to feel scared.
The statistics this year are horrific. Too many women who were silenced.
Too many stories ending in pain. I want to give them their voices back.
I want to fight for them, like Nate fights for our country.
Cindy has been incredible. We were thrown together by circumstance, but she’s become a sister to me. We’ve built something strong, something beautiful. Her presence is comforting—calm but firm, like a lighthouse in the middle of this emotional storm.
I nervously twist my wedding band and engagement ring. The metal is warm from my skin, but it’s the only thing that grounds me. I picture Nate placing them on my finger, his eyes full of love, his voice trembling with emotion. Come back to me, I whisper in my mind. Please.
My heels click softly as I step toward the stage, but my body feels heavy, almost unwilling. My feet feel like they’re wading through wet cement. The microphone waits for me like a spotlight I don’t want tonight. But I owe it to every woman in this room to show up. To speak.
The lights are bright. The room is full. I see donors, survivors, supporters, allies. I see hope. And I see the strength it takes to be vulnerable.
I take a deep breath, trying to shove the fear into a locked drawer in my heart.
“Ladies and gentlemen…” My voice is steady, but it feels foreign in my throat. “Thank you for your presence here tonight. Every woman deserves to feel safe—in her home, at work, on the street. Safety isn’t a privilege—it’s a right.”
A murmur of agreement rises from the audience, and I press on, fueled by their support.
“Every day, girls, mothers, sisters, and wives are abused by those who should’ve protected them. This isn’t just a statistic. These are real women. Real lives shattered.”
I pause, my chest tightening.
“We created this association to listen to women. To give them shelter. Legal protection. Psychological support. And most importantly, hope. Because those who beat us do not love us. Love doesn’t bruise. Love doesn’t silence. And above all—it is never our fault.”
I feel my voice quiver, just a little. I don’t fight it. I let it break through. Because this isn’t just about them—it’s about all of us.
“We’re here tonight to inaugurate a new wing—one that will offer temporary housing and legal counsel to women and children escaping violence. A safe place. A new beginning. Your donations tonight will help build that future.”
The applause starts slowly, then builds, washing over me like a tide. I manage a small smile, even as I feel the burn behind my eyes.
The ballroom’s doors slam open with a violent echo that rips through the air like a gunshot.
Gasps ripple across the room. Every eye turns toward the entrance. My breath catches in my throat as two men in uniform stride in, their expressions unreadable, grim. And behind them—Morris. My heart plummets. My knees wobble, a wave of heat and dread washing over me all at once.
No. No, no, no.
Cindy’s arm wraps tightly around my waist as if she can feel me slipping, grounding me before I hit the floor. I cling to her without realizing it, the wedding ring digging into her hand.
“Mrs. Weister,” one of the officers says gently, voice cutting through the stunned silence. “Sorry for the interruption. Could you follow us?”
The room starts spinning, voices blurring into a distant murmur. “Is Nathan okay?” I ask, my voice cracking, trying to sound calm, rational—but it comes out trembling and hoarse. I already know something’s wrong. I feel it in every part of me.
Cindy squeezes my hand like she can infuse strength into me, and I nod, legs moving before I’m even aware of it. Each step feels like walking through a nightmare I can't wake up from.
“What happened?” I ask once we’re out of the ballroom, the lights behind us, the speech forgotten. My hands are shaking. My stomach turns.
The older officer looks at me with quiet restraint. “Captain Weister has been transferred in Germany to Landstuhl Regional Medical Centre. We’re here to accompany you there, ma'am.”
Germany?
Transferred?
I don’t understand. Nothing makes sense. My pulse is pounding so loudly it drowns out the hallway noise. “Oh my God. Is Nathan okay?” I ask again, this time louder, more desperate. I turn to Morris. “Get my jacket and bag. Now.”
The younger officer finally meets my eyes. “He’s still alive, ma’am.”
Those four words are the only thing keeping me upright.
He's still alive.
He's still alive.
But how alive? What aren’t they telling me? Why do their faces look like they’re preparing me for something I won’t be able to handle?
They say nothing else.
No answers. No comfort. Just silence and protocol.
Even as I climb aboard the military chopper, they won’t speak. I ask again. And again. My voice grows hoarse, but their lips stay sealed. By the time we’re airborne, I’m trembling, fists clenched on my lap, heart thudding wildly in my chest.
Tears fall silently, hot trails of fear carving their way down my cheeks.
I don’t care about rules or briefings or protocol. I don’t care if he’s wounded or unconscious or broken—I just need to get to him.
Please, God. Let him still be mine when I do.
The Black Hawk roars like a monster across the night sky, its blades chopping the air with a deafening rhythm, but none of it compares to the noise in my head.
I’m strapped into a seat, but I can barely feel the harness digging into my chest. My vision blurs at the edges. My body is cold—too cold—and I’m sweating all at once. The metallic scent of the helicopter mixes with my fear, and bile rises in my throat.
I can't breathe.
Every second drags like hours. I clench my fists until my nails pierce skin. I press the pads of my fingers against my lips, trying to hold in the sobs. But they keep slipping through, small and broken. He's still alive. He’s still alive. But why won’t they tell me anything more?
What if he’s in a coma? What if he doesn’t remember me?
A sharp pang stabs at my chest. I’ve spent months waiting for him, and now they tell me this—no details, no comfort, just Germany.
My mind spins with all the worst-case scenarios I’ve ever read in articles or heard in whispered stories from soldiers’ wives.
My legs start to go numb. My hands tremble uncontrollably. A cold shiver climbs my spine, and I feel the blood drain from my face. My vision swims, and I clutch the strap across my chest like it can tether me to this reality.
Don’t pass out. Don’t you dare pass out now.
I whisper Nate’s name like a mantra. I can’t lose him. Not now. Not after everything.
By the time we land, I’m dizzy, soaked in sweat, and ready to collapse. But I don’t. I run.
Room 378. I burst through the door without thinking, my feet moving faster than my brain can catch up.
“Nate!” I gasp.
He lies motionless on the hospital bed—pale, tubes, monitors, wires, bandages. My beautiful, strong man looks like a shadow of himself. A wave of nausea slams into me.
“Nate, I’m here,” I whisper as I stumble to his bedside, my hand reaching out to touch his arm. “Everything will be fine. I’m here, baby.”
I look at the nurses. They move around him like ghosts, saying nothing, not even meeting my eyes.
“What happened?” My voice is shaky. “How is he? Please—someone talk to me!” Still silence. “For fuck’s sake, can anyone give me a fucking answer?!”
“Isabel? Isabel Barlow?”
The voice jolts me. I turn sharply. “Christian?” My heart skips.
He looks older, more defined—worn in the way life tends to mold people. But it’s definitely him. Christian Langston. My friend from university. A familiar face in the middle of a nightmare.
“You’re here?” I ask.
“Hi, gorgeous.” He pulls me into a hug, and I collapse against him, just for a second. His voice is calm. Solid. “This is my department. I'm a surgeon now. Why are you—”
“My husband,” I point to Nate’s bed. “He was brought here. No one will tell me a damn thing.”
“Let me have a look, I started my shift a few minutes ago.” He takes the folder from my hands and flips through it.
My heart beats so hard it hurts.
“He had emergency surgery when he arrived,” Christian says, eyes scanning the pages quickly. “There were nine fragments in his back. He’s stable now, though they left one piece in—too risky to remove. He’s just sedated. But Isabel… he’s okay. You hear me? He’s okay.”