Chapter 34
Patiently Waiting
Fenella
It’s getting late, but I’m still waiting for the doctor to come out. Laird’s been in surgery for two hours to remove the bullet, and the red light above the operating room still glows like a warning I can’t escape.
I sit on the chair; my right leg wrapped in bandages. Every few minutes, my ankle throbs, pulsing in time with my heartbeat. When I take a deep breath, it eases a little, but the cold still seeps through my skin.
My hands clutch the jacket Matthew lent me. It’s not enough to block the chill, but at least it hides me. The neckline of my jumpsuit is too low, too exposed, and the black fabric is stiff with dried blood. I keep telling myself it’s just sweat, but I can still smell the blood on me.
“It’s done!” Jessy shouts suddenly.
My heart jumps. I stand too fast, pain shooting through my ankle. My hand catches his, and I hold on like it’s the only solid thing left. Thank God for loyal friends. Even Golden and Matthew already went back to the DA's office with the FBI commander.
A nurse finally opens the door. I rush to her.
“How’s the surgery?”
“It went well, but please wait for the doctor to explain the details,” she says politely.
My breath stutters out. “Oh, thank God.”
A few minutes later, nurses wheel out a bed. Laird’s lying there—pale, motionless, wires and tubes everywhere. For a heartbeat, I can’t move. My legs lock, and I just stare, afraid he’ll vanish if I blink. Is he breathing? His chest shakes up and down in regular motion. Yes. Yes, he's breathing.
A man in green scrubs walks toward me, his tone calm, practiced. “The bullet didn’t hit any major organs. We removed it successfully.”
I exhale, shaking. “Thank you, doctor.”
“One of his ribs is fractured, and he has a mild concussion. We’ll keep monitoring him until he’s stable. Are you family?”
That sounds really bad. If only I said the safe word sooner, he wouldn't have reached this horrible state.
“I’m his girlfriend, but his brother’s on the way,” I manage, biting my lip hard enough to taste blood.
“When he arrives, please ask him to stop by the nurse’s station to sign the paperwork.”
“Of course. Thank you.” I gulp down, reassuring myself that everything will be okay. My knees nearly give out. Safe. He’s safe.
The doctor gives a kind smile and leaves. Jessy and I follow the nurses as they wheel Laird upstairs. They check machines, adjust IVs.
They give some instructions and ask Jessy a few questions. I can't keep up with their conversation, not with Laird still lay in bed like that. Everything hums and beeps softly, almost too steady. I sit in the chair beside the bed, staring at his still hand.
Jessy’s voice floats from the corner, talking to Golden through his phone. He shuts the call then walks towards me. “Fenella, you’re staying here tonight?” His hand rubs my shoulder, bringing me back to reality check.
“Yeah. You should go home and rest,” I say, my voice rough.
“Sure, but only after you clean up a little.”
“No one’s gonna see me anyway.” I roll my eyes upward.
“At least Laird will when he wakes up. Girl, you look like a Halloween prop with all that blood on your face.”
I almost smile. “God, you might have a point.”
In the bathroom, I splash water over my face until my reflection blurs. Blood runs pink down the drain. My ponytail’s a mess. My eyes are red. I look like someone who’s been through hell and somehow walked out. Jessy was right.
I tidy my hair as much as I can and make sure my face is clean. Bruises add dark burgundy in some spots, but at least it's clean or wrapped in band aid.
When I come out, I freeze. A tall man with dark blond hair and green eyes stands by the bed. For a split second, my heart stops. I thought it’s Laird awake. But he wears glasses and has a softer jaw line.
“Lloyd?” I whisper.
He turns, eyes widening, scanning me from head to toe, like he’s taking inventory of my damage.
“Oh, hey, Fenella. How are you?”
“I’m better now.” My voice cracks as he hugs me and kisses my temple. I cling to his sleeve for a second longer than I should.
“I heard everything from the guy who called. Mind filling me in? I didn’t even know Laird was back in Boston,” Lloyd says, pulling out a chair for me.
“Uh, well…” I glance at Jessy, who’s frozen mid-blink. “This is Jessy, my friend. Jessy, this is Laird’s brother, Lloyd.”
“Nice to meet you! Wow, you look so much like him. Are you twins?” Jessy grins.
“No, I’m three years younger,” Lloyd replies, flat.
Jessy laughs. “Guess those handsome genes run deep.”
Lloyd doesn’t react. He eyes Jessy with suspicion. That serious face toward strangers hasn’t changed since his teenage years. The silence stretches until Jessy clears his throat.
“Okay, I’ll head home. I’ll bring you a change of clothes later, Fenella, when we switch shifts.”
I nod. “Thanks, Jess.”
When he leaves, the air feels heavier. Only the quiet rhythm of Laird’s breathing fills the room.
“I didn’t know you were back in Boston,” Lloyd says finally. “Did you and Laird come together?”
“No. I got here on Christmas Eve. Laird came later.”
“Oh. Has he been staying at your place?” His brow lifts.
“Please don’t tell your dad,” I whisper.
“I won’t. I’m just surprised he skipped the Christmas party and didn’t stop by the house.” He shrugs.
“Yeah, he insisted on working from my place.”
“That’s fine. I’ve been slammed the past few weeks with mock trial prep, barely even home. But Dad made me show up. Honestly, I admire him for standing up to our father. Was that because of you?”
“I don’t know,” I sigh. The truth sits too heavy to unpack. The only thing I know, he's hurt because of me.
He gives a faint smile. “You still haven’t told me everything.”
So I tell him. Two hours slip by as I recount everything—from New York, to Alan, to the warehouse. My voice cracks once, maybe twice. Lloyd listens, silent, his jaw tight.
“That’s insane. Laird said he's going to look for you in New York and all. I thought he was kidding,” he mutters.
“Yeah. Tell me about it.”
“The world flips upside down because of women sometimes,” he says, half laughing.
“Should I be offended?”
“Please don’t. I mean that women rule the world.” He chuckles, and for a second, it’s Laird’s voice I hear. We stare at Laird in silence. Lloyd is the first to break the quiet moment. “Are you staying until he wakes up?”
“Yes.”
“You’re spending the night here?” He confirms in disbelief.
“Yeah.”
“You’re not going home?”
“No. I’ll stay.”
He studies me, expression softening. “Then hang tight. I’ll handle the paperwork and grab you a blanket and the family card.” His hand rubs my shoulder for a second—gentle, almost brotherly.
“Thanks, Lloyd,” I whisper. He nods and walks out.
I stare at Laird again. The machines keep breathing for him.
I press my hand to the edge of the bed, tracing the warmth that’s still there, and let my body finally shake.
Pain surges through my body, but relief tackles it all.
It numbs everything at the thought that Laird’s hurt worse than I am. All because of me.
* * *
“Fenella.”
I wake up when a hand strokes my head. I blink, trying to focus.
My neck aches, stiff from sleeping in a chair, and my chest flutters with sudden relief, almost dizzying.
I lift my head and see Laird’s face. His emerald eyes meet mine, a small, reassuring smile on his lips.
My heart sinks and soars at the same time.
“Laird!” I exclaim, voice trembling a little.
“Hey,” he smiles as I wipe my cheek and the corners of my mouth.
“Hey, baby. Oh, thank God.” I press a long kiss to his forehead, then his cheek, and a quick peck on his lips. My eyes sting, but it’s not the time to cry, so I hold it in. He chuckles, then flinches and groans. My stomach twists. Did I hurt him? I hate that all I can do is sit here.
“How are you feeling? Does it hurt anywhere?” I ask, pulling back, scanning his bandaged stomach. No blood seeps through. The bandages look clean. My hands clench, relief running silently through me.
“It’s okay. I was just playing a trick on you,” he grins.
“What? Liar!” I tap his shoulder lightly, pouting. Tears well up, but I blink them away. He’s safe. Thank God.
“Ouch, that hurts,” he says, brow furrowed. I sink back into my chair, trying to calm my racing heart. “What time is it now?”
“Uhm, let me see.” I pull my phone from my pocket. “It’s 7 a.m.”
“You’ve been sleeping in that sitting position all night?” Laird asks, rubbing my cheek gently.
“Yes. I was afraid you’d wake up alone,” I whisper, meeting his soft smile. Heat rushes to my cheeks as guilt pricks me.
“That’s overprotective. Your neck and back must be sore. Why didn’t you go home last night? Your ankle is sprained too.” His hand finds mine and squeezes gently. Warmth spreads through our entwined fingers, a quiet anchor in the storm of panic in my chest.
“It’s fine. They bandaged and treated my ankle. It doesn’t hurt as much now. Hey, want something to drink?” I ask, picking up my blanket from the floor.
“Sure,” Laird nods.
I drape the blanket over the back of the chair and move to the nightstand. I pour mineral water into a glass and help him drink. After a few sips, he tilts his head back, signaling he’s quenched his thirst. Relief seeps through me, though a flutter of worry still clings to my ribs.
“Whose blanket is that?” he asks, eyeing it as I return the glass.
“Oh, Lloyd borrowed it from the nurse.”
“He came here?” he frowns.
“Yes. He stopped by last night to handle some paperwork as your family.”
“Oh, right. You couldn’t,” he mutters, lips pursed.
“Yes, I’m not your family yet, so I couldn’t help during a critical time.” I cross my arms, cheeks warm, wanting to sulk. But he chuckles, soft and forgiving. I let a small smile escape.
“Maybe next time,” Laird says wryly.
“Oh, no, Your Highness. There won’t be a next time. No more reckless stunts. I almost lost you,” I shake my head, fear I’ve held all night settling again in my stomach.
“You realize you were the one insisting on that crazy thing yesterday?” He raises an eyebrow, amusement flickering in his gaze.
“That was the first and last time. Believe me. No more playing FBI. If I knew you’d end up here, I wouldn’t have dared.” I squeeze his hand.
He smiles softly, and for the first time in hours, I allow my shoulders to relax. At least he’s laughing and smiling like usual. Nothing is strange. He looks fine—or he’s too good at hiding pain.
“Well, what about Lloyd? He must have been surprised to see me here,” he says, his voice hoarse.
“Yes. I told him everything that happened yesterday. He was amazed at how brave you were.”
“Understandable. I haven’t shown up at all for Christmas.” He adjusts his pillow carefully.
“Why did you lie to him?” I help him shift slightly, cupping the nape of his neck with gentle hands.
“I just wanted to focus without distractions,” he says quietly, and there comes a weight of everything left unsaid between us. Is it really the only reason? Why’s he hiding from his dad?
Before I can ask more, the door bursts open. Jessy storms in, arms full of large bags.
“Oh! Hey, Laird! Thank goodness you’re awake.” He squeezes Laird’s shoulder, grinning ear to ear.
“Thanks, Jessy.” Laird grins back.
“What’s in the bags?” I ask, tilting my head. Jessy rolls his eyes, a tiny smirk betraying his amusement.
“Your clothes, silly. Even though I had to force you, you’d insist on waiting for Laird all day, right?”
“Oh, yes. Did you bring toothbrush and face wash?” I giggle, tension easing from my chest.
“Yes, everything. Makeup, fresh underwear, and a comb. Look inside.” He gestures with an open hand.
“Thank you. You’re my lifesaver.” I pull out my beauty pouch, feeling a rare bubble of calm wash over me.
“Hey, what about Peter and Alan?” Laird asks, curiosity coloring his voice.
“Oh, you’ll see.” Jessy grabs the TV remote and turns on the main channel.
“Viewers, last night Peter Morgan, Massachusetts senator, was arrested by a joint FBI and prosecutor team. Charges include corruption, money laundering, and support for organized crime,” a female anchor reports, microphone close to her chin, serious expression fixed.
“Peter’s crimes shocked the international community, particularly among celebrities, designers, and artists, including Mallory West, Jemima Hors, Oscar de Ragetti, and more.
His wife and brother-in-law were also arrested at the gala.
Joining us now is Malcolm Golden from the federal prosecutor’s office. ”
The camera shifts to a face I know well. The old man looks the same—sharp, stern eyes of a veteran prosecutor. The man who once cared for Laird, who’d sacrifice a shirt or a hand for others, is gone. Only the authoritative senior public officer remains. My chest tightens at the thought.
“Mr. Golden, can you outline the chronology of Peter Morgan’s arrest?”
“We conducted a meticulous covert operation. The FBI and our informants worked hard to achieve the best results.” He narrows his eyes, like he’s forced to speak.
“Is it true Peter Morgan took Massachusetts government funds and demanded commissions from construction projects?”
“I can’t answer now. We are still investigating, preparing the indictment, and reporting to superiors. Details will be disclosed at trial.”
“Did they cover Mallory or Alan?” I ask, curiosity pricking my voice.
“Everywhere. But you’ll get pissed seeing it,” Jessy says, flipping channels. Every news and entertainment station covers the story from multiple angles.
“Stop criminalizing artists! We stand with Mallory!” protesters shout.
Other segments show counter-demonstrations. My stomach churns. Even now, the world doesn’t care about our lives. Those fans only care about their idol, defending without knowing the truth.
I snatch the remote and turn it off. After all we’ve been through, after seeing Laird suffer, they’re still blinded by the mask. It’s so unfair. My hands shake slightly. Jessy’s eyes widen.
“Enough. We get it. Laird needs rest,” I say firmly, letting myself lean back and finally breathe.
“Yes, you’re right, dear.”