Chloe
The next couple of days pass in a haze of pain and recovery. I’m still in the hospital, and though the nurses assure me I’m healing well, I can’t shake the emotional fog. My body aches, but my heart feels even more battered, a dull throb that refuses to go away.
My family doesn’t come to visit again. I know they were here when I was unconscious, but now… nothing. It’s just as well. I don’t know what I’d say to them, how I’d react. The betrayal, the confusion, it’s all too fresh.
The nurses are kind, and the doctors are efficient, but it all feels distant and clinical. I go through the motions—answering questions about how I feel, taking the medication they bring, letting them check my vitals—but it’s like I’m on autopilot.
When I’m alone in the room, I have too much time to think. The memories of the accident are blurry, but the moments before and after, with Tristan… those are clear. The way he looked at me, the accusations in his eyes, and then the overwhelming guilt after I woke up, when he realized he was wrong.
He’s trying. I know that. But knowing that doesn’t make it easier.
I stare at the ceiling, the hospital’s fluorescent lights casting a harsh glow over everything. I close my eyes, trying to block it out, but it’s like trying to escape my own thoughts—impossible.
I drift in and out of sleep, the painkillers dulling the physical pain but doing nothing for the ache in my chest. Each day blends into the next, and I can’t help wondering what’s going to happen when I’m finally discharged. Where do I go from here? How do I pick up the pieces?
After a few days, I’m feeling a lot better.
My body is still sore, but the constant pain has dulled to something I can live with.
The doctor gives me the go-ahead to be discharged, and I feel a strange mix of relief and dread.
Leaving the hospital means facing the real world again, dealing with everything that’s happened.
A nurse comes by to do her last checks, her demeanor cheerful. She’s been one of my regulars, a kind woman with a knack for making me smile despite everything. As she checks my vitals one last time, she jokes, “The staff manning the phones will be glad to see you go.”
I blink, confused. “What do you mean?”
She laughs lightly. “Your husband has been calling pretty much every hour on the hour, demanding updates on your status. He wanted to make sure you were okay.”
Something twists in my chest at her words.
I picture Tristan, his face drawn and haggard, pacing as he waits for updates.
We’re in this messy, painful place, but he’s still been there in his way, still cared enough to stay connected.
It’s bittersweet, knowing he’s been so worried, but also a reminder of the distance between us, the rift that needs healing.
“He has?” I murmur.
“Yes,” the nurse replies, smiling. “He’s been very concerned about you.”
I manage a small smile in return, the sting of tears in my eyes. “Thank you for taking such good care of me.”
“It’s our job,” she says, patting my hand.
Ivy walks into the room, and I’m relieved to see her. She’s been a constant support over the past few days, checking in on me and offering to let me stay at her place. I couldn’t bear the thought of going back to Tristan’s house, not yet.
“Hey,” she says, her eyes full of concern. “How are you feeling?”
“Better,” I reply, managing a small smile. “Ready to get out of here.”
“Good,” she says, coming over to help me with my things. “Because I’ve got a list of about a million movies I want to get through while you’re at my place, so we should get started.”
The nurse returns with a wheelchair, and I’m carefully helped into it. As we head to the front desk to finalize my discharge, I’m so grateful for Ivy that I don’t know what to do with myself. She’s been my rock, and I don’t know how I would have gotten through this without her.
When we reach the desk, the nurse handling the paperwork glances up at me. “Everything’s all set, Mrs. Thorne. Your husband has taken care of all the bills.”
My pulse stutters. “He… he did?”
“Yes,” the nurse replies, smiling. “He insisted that all the bills be sent to him. You don’t have to worry about a thing.”
I nod, feeling a complicated assortment of emotions. Anger, frustration, loss… but also something that feels embarrassingly close to relief. I asked for space, and Tristan is still taking care of me in his own way.
As we head outside into the bright sunshine, Ivy wheels me toward her car. She looks at me, her expression sympathetic. “You okay?”
“I don’t know,” I admit, my voice shaky. “It’s just… he’s still trying to take care of me, even now.”
“That’s not a bad thing, Chloe,” she says. “He loves you. He’s trying to show it the only way he knows how.”
“I know,” I whisper, tears pricking at my eyes. “But it doesn’t change what happened. It doesn’t change how I feel right now.”
She nods. “You need time. And that’s okay. Let’s get you home, and you can figure it out from there.”
She helps me into her car and then returns the wheelchair.
I’ll be on crutches for a while to take some of the pressure off my injured leg, but since the hospital provided the wheelchair, I’m glad we used it.
It was nice not to have to hobble on crutches all the way to her car. I’m still sore as hell.
The drive to Ivy’s place doesn’t take long.
The salty breeze drifts through the car’s open windows, and I close my eyes, letting the sound of the sea and the fresh air soothe my frazzled nerves.
It works for a few minutes—until I remember Tristan’s arms around me as I fell into the waves, the color of his eyes reflecting the sea.
Then the ocean stops being a balm, and it hurts just like everything else.
As we pull up to Ivy’s beachfront condo, I feel some of the tension ease. She helps me out of the car and grabs my bag, then we make our way inside. The condo is bright and inviting, and the décor perfectly matches her sweet, bubbly personality.
“Oh, this is so cute,” I comment as I hobble in on my crutches, smiling in spite of the heavy feeling. “I love your place.”
“Aw, thanks.” She flushes, looking pleased. “You can take the guest room,” she adds, leading me down a hallway. “It’s all set up for you.”
I make my way slowly into the room, still getting used to the crutches. The walls have hand-painted floral designs, and a vase of fresh lavender sits on the nightstand, filling the room with its calming scent.
Ivy sets my bag down on a chair and turns to me with a small smile. “Take your time getting settled. I’m going to make us some tea. Chamomile sound good?”
“That sounds perfect,” I say, giving her a grateful smile.
As she heads to the kitchen, I take a moment to look around the room again.
It’s cozy, with sunlight streaming in through the windows, casting patches of light on the floor.
I rest my crutches against the wall and settle onto the edge of the bed, tracing the soft quilt with my fingers as I let out a small breath.
My cracked ribs make breathing a bit painful, but it’s not as intense as it was at first.
A few moments later, Ivy returns with two steaming mugs of chamomile tea. She hands me one, and we sit together in silence, the heat of the tea seeping into my hands.
“Thanks, Ivy,” I say quietly, taking a sip. “For everything.”
She waves a hand. “It’s nothing. That’s what friends are for, right?” Her smile eases some of the tightness in my chest. “Honestly, it’s the least I could do. You’ve been through the fucking wringer.”
I huff a humorless laugh, nodding. I can’t deny that.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Ivy’s voice is soft.
I hesitate, staring into my tea. “I don’t even know where to start,” I admit.
“Start wherever you need to. I’m here for you, no matter what.”
I find myself spilling everything to Ivy, the words tumbling out in a flood. As I recount the confrontation with Tristan, the accident, and the aftermath—Tristan at my bedside, pleading, and the news of Genevieve’s betrayal—my voice cracks, and tears stream down my face.
When I finish, Ivy doesn’t say anything for a little while. She just wraps her arms around me and pulls me into a hug, careful of my bruises. The comfort of the gesture breaks down the last of my composure, and I sob into her shoulder.
“I’m so sorry, Chloe,” she murmurs, rubbing my back lightly. “You’ve been through way too much this week.”
Eventually, my tears slow, and I pull back, wiping my eyes. “God, it’s only been a week.” I sniff, trying to pull myself together. It’s difficult, and the reminder of how short the timespan has been doesn’t make it any easier.
It took less than a week for my life to fall apart. I should’ve known it was all too fragile.
“I can’t tell you what to do,” Ivy says. “You need to follow your heart and do what feels right for you.”
I take a sip of the tea, swallowing hard past the tightness in my throat.
Ivy pauses, taking a deep breath. “But I’ve known the Thorne brothers for a long time.” She rolls her eyes, a small smile playing on her lips. “Long enough that they all see me as some sort of dorky younger sister. None of them seem to realize I hit puberty years ago.”
I laugh, a small, fragile sound that barely covers the ache in my chest.
Ivy’s smile fades and she looks at me seriously. “But in all the years I’ve known him, I’ve never seen Tristan look at anyone the way he looks at you. Whatever else happened, there’s something real there.”
Her words slip between my bruised ribs and take up residence in my chest, making my heart stutter. I want to believe her, to hold onto the possibility that there’s still something worth saving, but the pain and betrayal feel like too much.
“Do you really think so?” I whisper.
She nods, squeezing my hand. “I do. But it’s up to you to decide what you want and what you’re willing to fight for.”
I take a deep breath, the words settling into me. A question bubbles up, and before I can second-guess myself, I ask it.
“How does he look at me?”