Chapter 37 Rhea
THIRTY-SEVEN
RHEA
When we began our descent, one of the crew members glanced at me. “We’ll land in less than a minute. Just stay seated until we offload her, okay?”
I nodded.
I knew it was important. I had to stay out of the way.
But when I saw the landing pad outside the window—and the team waiting—I could hardly breathe.
I think I counted eight of them. Maybe more. Lined up. Ready. All for my daughter.
Something in my chest nearly gave out with the effort of staying composed. All these people. Because Esme is really sick. Because my baby’s life is hanging in the balance.
They began the transfer, moving fast and precise. Every second precious. I watched—frozen—as they took my daughter off the chopper like I was seeing it all in slow motion. Like a movie that I can’t make stop.
“Ms. Sinclair—Rhea—you can step out now. Come with me.”
I blinked.
Esme was gone. Vanished into the building with the swarm around her. I realized I wouldn’t see her again until something changed. My legs felt like they’d turned to stone.
The woman—hospital staff, probably a liaison, placed a steadying arm under mine. Guided me down. I don’t remember climbing out. I don’t remember how I started moving.
I remember my hair lifting in the residual wash of the rotor blades, even as they slowed to stillness. The wind hitting my face, sharp and cool.
Then we were inside a corridor that is bright and cold. People passing with clipboards and carts, conversations happening all around me.
Life continuing like nothing is wrong.
I didn’t even bring a toothbrush. I’ll be here overnight and I didn’t even bring a toothbrush.
And then I see him.
Spencer.
As soon as I step into view, his eyes find mine. My legs are suddenly in full gear, carrying me straight into his arms. And the moment he wraps them around me—tight, assuring, unyielding—something in me cracks wide open.
I let go.
The day’s worth of fear, helplessness, and exhaustion pours out in long, heaving sobs.
I cling to him like he’s the only thing holding me up.
Because he is.
The woman who walked with me says something to Spencer—an update, a reassurance, I’m not sure.
And then he’s guiding me down the hall.
We step into a small room—three chairs, a narrow table, too-bright lighting. A space made for waiting.
He turns to me, gently tilts my chin until I’m looking into his eyes.
And I fall apart all over again.
Because what I see there isn’t Spencer Devereaux, the confident billionaire, the man who commands rooms and negotiates million-dollar deals.
What I see is worry. Uncertainty. Fear.
Seeing the matching ache in his heart makes me pull him to me this time. I squeeze him, burying my face in his chest, holding on like we both depend on it.
He wraps his arms around me without hesitation, grounding me with the strength I see he's barely holding onto himself.
How long we stand like that, I don’t know. But it’s a long time. We don’t speak. We don’t move. We just breathe.
It’s me who breaks the silence.
“I’m so sorry, Spencer,” I whisper, my voice cracking. “So sorry.”
But I can feel him shaking his head as he says, “Shhh. Not now. Not here. Please.”
Then he kisses the top of my head. And I realize in that moment, his anger has not been anger. It has been heartbreak.
I’ve broken his heart.
So we don’t talk. I don’t say anything about Esme. He doesn’t ask.
It’s as if saying her name out loud might tilt something in the wrong direction. As if this fragile moment—this tiny, silent agreement between us—is what’s keeping our world from falling apart.
I wonder if he’s thinking, like I am, that if we just get this one little part right—in this one little room—then maybe the rest will turn out okay, too. But I don’t know what getting it right looks like. And I don’t think he does either.
Eventually, we sit down, side by side in the stiff, plastic chairs. We join our hands together, fingers laced. Steady. Firm.
“What you did to get her here. . .” I want him to know how grateful I am, but the words unravel in my throat. I can’t go any further without crying.
Maybe he can’t either, because he just shakes his head, squeezes my hand, and says, “Don’t.”
I’m not sure what he means. Don’t talk? Don’t thank me? Don’t get me started?
But it doesn’t matter. Because he’s holding my hand, and that part—I understand.
He’s here.