41. Ingrid
Chapter forty-one
Ingrid
My hands shook on the drive over, much differently than they used to.
The drive to visit Tristian’s mom in the hospital had been mostly silent.
Every few minutes, I could feel him glance at me, but he didn’t say anything.
He just let me process, the same way I had let him.
The day left me feeling drained and utterly exhausted.
But just as Tristian was there for me, I had to be there for him, so I pushed aside my tiredness.
The hospital’s fluorescent lights hummed overhead, too bright, making everything look overexposed.
The white walls felt like they were closing in on us, heavy with the hollow sound of quiet sorrow.
Hospitals always had that heaviness, but something about this one, this floor, made it worse the closer we got to the room with multiple doctors surrounding the door.
Tristian grabbed my hand and stopped me gently before we reached the crowd.
Without saying a word, he directed me toward one of the waiting room chairs, his eyes fixed dead ahead on his mother’s door.
His hand lingered in mine for a moment longer before slipping away as he turned and walked toward the doctors.
I sat, my fingers fidgeting with the hem of my sleeve as I watched him from a distance.
He didn’t raise his voice, not at first. But I saw his jaw tighten.
One of the doctors, a younger man with silver-rimmed glasses, spoke calmly, holding a clipboard.
Tristian shook his head. His body language screamed tension, barely restrained.
Then another doctor said something, and Tristian’s posture shifted.
His hands rose in frustration, running through his hair.
I stood up before I even realized it, watching tensions rise.
“You shouldn’t get too involved.”
I turned slowly, making eye contact with Noah Locke, who was standing only a few feet away. He was a monument to cold, unfeeling perfection—dressed in a tailored suit, his expensive watch gleaming under the fluorescent lights.
I looked back over my shoulder.
“She’s on her last leg,” he said simply, glancing toward the hospital room. “The doctors won’t say it outright, but I’ve been in enough of these rooms to know.”
My mouth was dry. “Why are you here?”
“To talk some sense into my son,” he replied.
“Tristian’s emotional. Always has been. He thinks keeping her alive is some kind of redemption.
Like effort will bring her back.” He stepped closer, but I didn’t move.
“I paid the hospital bills, Ingrid. The insurance, the specialists, the private rooms. You think that’s cheap? ”
I swallowed. “Y-you’re his father.”
“He sure as hell doesn’t think so…” Noah’s voice had no emotion. No resentment or sadness. He… he was so calm, so detached. Almost like none of this hurt him. Like it was all just business.
“Regardless… that’s life. You take care of what has value. You cut loose what doesn’t.”
My stomach turned. “She’s not a liability,” I said, barely able to get the words out. “She’s his mother.”
“A mother who’s cost me over a million in care over five years. A mother who will never open her eyes again. Never speak. Never do anything but give her son false hope.”
“You’re disgusting,” I whispered, my pulse quickening.
“I’m realistic. And you’d do well to start thinking the same way.” He looked at me with something that almost resembled patience. “You want to play the caring girlfriend? Do yourself a favor and tell him to let go before it’s too late.”
“What are you talking about?”
Noah looked me dead in the eye. “The doctors won’t say it, but I will. There’s no recovery coming. She’s been slipping for months.”
“Tristian didn’t say—”
“Of course he didn’t,” Noah cut me off. “He can’t accept it. He’s still hoping. Still clinging on. But she’s going to die. And when she does, you’ll be the only one left trying to hold him together when the blame consumes him.”
“If you know so much about it, then why don’t you do something about it?”
“Like I said, Ingrid… I did my part. Unfortunately, Tristian didn’t.”
“And watching his mother die is a reasonable consequence?”
“You apparently know my son better than me… I’m sure you know how reasonable he is.”
I swallowed, the same feeling as being in the visitation room rushing back in.
“You don’t get to talk about him like that,” I said finally, my voice shaking.
Noah raised an eyebrow. “I’m his father.
That’s what you said, right?” Then he shifted.
His voice softened, almost pitying. “You know, you and Tristian are so different… and yet so alike. You probably don’t realize it, but you are.
For instance…” He sighed, fixing me with a heavy look. “Both of your mothers are dying.”
My eyes stayed on his, and for a moment… there was silence.
My mother? The thought started and stopped. Started again and went nowhere. I heard the words… They registered somewhere in my mind, but I didn’t speak, I couldn’t, I—
She’d been a ghost my whole life… present enough to be real, absent enough that I’d stopped reaching. I didn’t even know what losing her was supposed to feel like when I’d never really had her to begin with.
I was more confused than anything at the words, watching Noah’s gaze of pity return.
“Get the hell away from her.”
Tristian moved in front of me before I could even register him, a shield between me and his father.
“You okay?” he asked me, his voice tight, barely controlled.
I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out.
“It’s okay, son,” said Noah easily. “We were just talking; gave her a warning of the inevitable when you decide to finally pull the plug.” At Tristian’s intense gaze, he continued, “Don’t look at me like that. The poor girl needed to hear it from someone. You should thank me.”
For a long moment no one said anything. Tristian breathed heavy and hard. His body turned rigid. Then Tristian’s fist connected with his father’s face with a crack that echoed off the walls.
Noah jerked backward. Blood sprayed across his suit. Voices erupted from down the hall as doctors pushed forward.
They didn’t need to intervene as Tristian stayed back. Watched his father stagger, clutching his nose, looking up at his son in shock.
“You don’t talk to Ingrid,” Tristian finally said, voice razor-sharp. “You don’t look at her. You don’t even breathe in her fucking direction.”
Noah’s chest rose and fell, heavy breaths through his mouth now that his nose was broken.
“I’m preparing her,” he grunted, “for what you won’t say. For what you can’t.”
The tension was unbearable. My heart pounded so loud I could barely hear. I didn’t know who to look at. What to say. Or what I was even supposed to feel.
I was standing between a man breaking apart… and the man who built the pieces wrong in the first place.
And much as I hated to admit it, Noah wasn’t entirely wrong. I knew what clinging to impossible hope felt like. I’d done it my whole life with my father.
Tristian was in the same place. He hoped desperately for his mother… and she was declining. But he couldn’t face up to it, couldn’t acknowledge any truth in Noah’s words. Because if he did, then this was real. His mother was dying and he was going to lose her.
I stepped between the two of them, ignoring the trembling in my hands.
“You said what you came to say, Mr. Locke,” I said, “and I listened to you for long enough. So please… just do us a favor and leave.”
He clenched his jaw, still nursing his injured nose before he straightened, blood running freely down his face, and strode toward the doctors without another word. They moved into action immediately, ushering him into a side room.
My heart was still pounding.
Both of your mothers are dying.
Paralyzing confusion pulsed through my veins. When Tristian took my hand, the spell broke.
“I’m sorry,” he rumbled. “I should’ve come sooner”
“It’s okay,” I murmured back. “You had more important things to deal with.”
Tristian squeezed my hand. “Are you ready to go see her?”
“Yes,” I nodded, squeezing his hand back.
I allowed him to walk me into his mother’s hospital room, the atmosphere thick and filled with a quiet, inevitable dread. A doctor was busy inside, fussing with charts and looking at machines. He greeted us politely enough, though warily—he must have seen what happened in the hall.
Sitting beside his mother’s bed, I watched silently as Tristian resumed discussing options.
But they were narrowing each day that passed. The doctor was clear: hope was in short supply now, and Tristian needed to ready himself to make a decision, now that he was solely responsible for his mother’s care.
Placing my hand in his silently as he stood beside me, I could see the visible tension in his shoulders soften before my eyes drifted over to the delicate, frail woman he knew as his mother. She was a portrait of fragility, her pulse a faint, stuttering rhythm.
My heart clenched as I watched her mindlessly stare at the wall ahead, waiting for the world to guide her, waiting for something to liberate her.
And at that moment, I could’ve been dreaming, could’ve been blinded by the tears, but her eyes…
they’d landed on me. Not accidental. Her gaze… it was intentional.
It wasn’t a random twitch of dying nerves. It was a haunting, lucid tether. Behind the mask of machines and the perfect stillness of her face, a soul was screaming to be heard. I recognized that look, the silent, agonizing plea of a woman caged.
And I saw her. Not just the body in the bed. Not just the skin and bones and machines. But her. The mother. The woman. The fighter.
And I knew, deep in my gut, that she was still in there. Still living. Still fighting. Still holding on.