3. Willow
3
WILLOW
I learned years ago that life is borrowed, but didn’t know my time would run out just when things were worth living for.
I was just about to marry Vincent, one of the loves of my life, and then my heart gave up like it couldn’t take the weight of all that love. I was going to demand we go get Damien and Cast to tell them they didn’t have a choice - they were stuck with me until death, but that was too much for my heart. Loving all three of these men is too much, an overindulgence I would happily die for.
The beeping of the monitors is a relentless reminder that I’m still here, that my body refused to let go even when my heart failed me.
Failed us.
The weight of love, real love, is heavy. Maybe too heavy. I thought I could handle it, thought I could hold all of them inside me and still have room to breathe. But my body revolted, reminding me that even love has limits, and mine is apparently cardiac arrest and my body rejecting the heart transplant I got from Rosemary years ago.
The door creaks open, and I don’t have to look to know who it is. Lindsey’s been my nurse since I was admitted, and I’ve come to recognize the light shuffle of her steps, the way she always announces herself with the softest sigh.
She steps into my line of sight, her blonde ponytail swinging as she moves toward my IV stand. Her scrubs are a different shade today, a muted blue instead of the lilac ones she wore last night.
“How are we feeling today, Willow?” she asks, her voice gentle as she checks the tubing.
Like I lost something I never got to have. Like I almost had everything and then woke up in a hospital bed instead. Like my body gave up on me when my heart was the fullest it’s ever been.
I let my gaze drift to the ceiling, swallowing past the lump in my throat. “Like I should be dead,” I murmur.
Lindsey pauses, then gives me that same small, knowing smile she always does when I say things that should probably concern her more than they do. “Well, you’re not,” she says. “So I guess that means you have a second chance.”
A second chance. I don’t know if that’s a gift or a punishment.
I stare at the ceiling, counting the tiny imperfections in the white tiles, searching for something to anchor me when everything inside feels weightless, untethered. A second chance. Like I’m supposed to be grateful. Like I should be relieved that my heart, after betraying me, decided to keep steady for me to live but not strong enough for me to leave this hospital room .
I turn my head slightly, catching her watching me with that careful, measured expression, like she’s seen this before. The half-dead, the almost-gone, the ones who wake up and don’t know whether to thank God or curse Him.
“What’s the point of a second chance,” I ask, my voice quiet but raw, “if the first one was finally starting to mean something?”
Lindsey sighs, her fingers deft as she checks the IV drip. “I don’t know, Will. Maybe it’s about figuring out what you missed the first time around.”
I huff a laugh, but it’s weak, barely there. “I didn’t miss anything. I had everything. And then I lost it before I could even hold onto it.”
Lindsey’s hands still for a moment, and when she looks at me again, her expression softens in that way only someone who cares too much can manage. “You think love disappears just because you almost died?” She tilts her head. “That’s not how it works.”
She goes back to adjusting my IV, like she didn’t just crack my chest open with those words, because she knows all about Vincent, Damien, and Cast. I told her once when I was hopped up on too many drugs to function and just cried about the three men I love.
I don’t answer.
She sighs, “Vincent Beaumont is in the lobby again.”
“ Did you tell him that I am not putting him on the visitors list?” I mutter, twisting my waffle blanket between my fingertips.
“I did.” Lindsey’s voice is even, with a tinge of disappointment like she’s silently judging me while adjusting the flow of whatever’s keeping me from slipping away. “And he looked about five seconds from burning this place to the ground.”
A pang lances through me, sharp and deep, but I swallow it down. I don’t have the luxury of indulging in pain when my body is already so fragile, when every emotion feels like it might be the thing that pushes me over the edge. “Then he can waste his time all he wants,” I say flatly, twisting the blanket tighter between my fingers. “I’m not changing my mind.”
Lindsey exhales sharply. “You’re a stubborn little shit, you know that?”
I almost smile. Almost.
“Vincent is suffering, Willow,” she continues, her tone softer now. “He’s not just your fiancé—he’s your person . You really think keeping him away is protecting him?”
I close my eyes, because I can’t look at her when she says things like that, when she says his name like it still belongs to me. “I think making him watch me die would destroy him.”
Silence stretches between us, thick and heavy. I open my eyes just in time to see Lindsey press her lips together, debating something, before she finally sighs.
“Love isn’t about protecting someone from pain. It’s about letting them be there through it.”
I want to argue, but what’s the point? We both know I’m not going to let Vincent in. Not now. Not when all I can offer him is heartbreak.
Instead, I turn my head toward the window, watching the afternoon light shift against the glass. “Tell him to go home, Lindsey.”
She’s quiet for a long moment, and then she nods. “Fine.” She picks up the empty IV bag and moves toward the door. “But I’m not gonna lie to him when he asks if you’re getting worse.”
“Lindsey-”
“He deserves to know that the love of his life is dying. Willow, he loves you like nothing I have ever seen before.” She shakes her head fondly. “I won’t lie to him. I can’t.”
I let out an exasperated sigh, rubbing my forehead with my thumb and pointer.
“The doctor will be here in a moment to check that heart of yours.” She nods.
“You mean the ticking time bomb in my chest,” I mutter.
“Funny,” she mocks before leaving me alone in my private corner room, courtesy of Vincent.
I stare at the closed door, my chest rising and falling in slow, measured breaths, trying to ignore the sharp sting behind my eyes.
Lindsey doesn’t get it. No one does.
Vincent has watched someone die before. I’ve seen myself almost dead. I’ve watched my body fail, watched myself shrink, and felt the coldness of my skin spread like a spider web across my body. I’ve watched the way death creeps in slowly at first, like a shadow waiting for its moment, and then all at once, stealing everything that made them who they were.
It’s agony. I won’t do that to Vincent. I won’t make him go through what he did with Rosemary again .
He’s too full of life, too big, too much, too everything to be trapped in a room with me while I wither away. It would wreck him, break him open in ways I don’t have the right to do. And I love him too much— all of them too much—to let that happen.
I press my fingers to my temple, willing the ache behind my skull to fade, but it’s a losing battle. The exhaustion isn’t just physical. It’s in my bones, in my heart, in the slow drag of each breath.
The door opens again, and I brace myself before I even glance up.
Dr. Marshall strides in, flipping through my chart like the news of my impending death is just another note in a file. “Afternoon, Willow,” he greets, his voice clipped in that practiced, clinical way that doctors perfect.
I arch a brow. “Is it?”
His mouth twitches— not quite a smile, not quite irritation —before he snaps the chart shut and meets my gaze. “How are you feeling?”
I huff a laugh. “Like my heart’s trying to kill me.”
He doesn’t humor the joke. “Any dizziness? Shortness of breath?”
“Both,” I admit, twisting the blanket between my fingers again. “But that’s normal now, isn’t it?”
He nods once. “You’re on a high-dose immunosuppression regimen to keep your body stable while we wait,” he explains. “It’s preventing further stress on your heart and reducing the risk of inflammatory complications, but it also means your immune system is significantly weakened. ”
I shift my gaze to him, unimpressed. “So, what? I have to stay wrapped in bubble wrap until I die?”
His mouth tightens, but he doesn’t rise to the bait. “It means that even a minor infection could become fatal. Your body doesn’t have the strength to fight back.”
I already knew this, but hearing it out loud makes it feel heavier, more final. Like I’m not just waiting for my heart to fail—I’m waiting for anything, everything to become the thing that takes me out first.
“You’re already experiencing increased fatigue, dizziness, and shortness of breath, which is in line with the progression we anticipated,” Dr. Marshall continues, ignoring the way I press my fingers to my temples like I can rub the reality of it all away. “We’ll be monitoring your organ function closely, but at this point, our priority is keeping you comfortable and preventing complications.”
“Comfortable,” I echo, letting the word settle on my tongue. “That’s just a polite way of saying you can’t do anything else.”
Dr. Marshall’s silence is answer enough.
I exhale slowly, my fingers twisting the blanket again. “And the transplant list?”
He hesitates, and I hate him for it. The pause, the hesitation—it’s worse than anything he could actually say.
“You know where you stand,” he says finally, not unkindly. “I won’t lie to you, Willow. The likelihood of you getting a heart in time is?—”
“Low,” I finish for him. “Yeah, I got that part.”
The room falls into silence. The beeping of the monitors feels louder now, filling the empty spaces between us.
Dr. Marshall clears his throat. “I’ll have Lindsey adjust your meds to keep the dizziness under control. If anything feels off, you need to let us know immediately.”
“Right.” I turn my head toward the window again. The sun has shifted, casting longer shadows across the floor. He exhales sharply through his nose, and then he speaks again.
“There is something else we can try.”
I turn my head slowly, watching him with narrowed eyes. “What do you mean?”
He hesitates for only a second before stepping closer. “There’s an experimental trial for a partial mechanical heart,” he explains. “It’s designed to work with the remaining function of a failing heart, essentially taking over the workload and keeping the patient stable until they can have a heart donor.”
I swallow, gripping the blanket a little tighter. “And you think I’d be a good candidate?”
Dr. Marshall nods. “Your case aligns perfectly with the study’s criteria. You’re young, otherwise healthy, and you have no secondary organ failure yet. The device could keep you alive while we wait for a full transplant—possibly even long enough that you wouldn’t need one.”
I should feel hope, relief, maybe even joy. But all I feel is suspicion. “And what’s the catch?”
He sighs. “It’s still experimental. That means risks—potential complications, the chance your body might reject the device, long-term effects we don’t fully understand yet.” He folds his arms, his expression professional and determined. “But compared to the alternative… ”
I wet my lips, my voice quieter when I ask, “What’s the success rate?”
“Early trials have been promising,” he says. “Patients have seen significant improvement in quality of life and survival time. If you’re accepted into the program, you’d be one of the first in this stage of clinical trials.”
One of the first. A test subject. I don’t know if that should scare me, but it doesn’t. Not really. If I can have one more hour with the guys I love then it would be worth it.
Dr. Marshall watches me carefully. “You don’t have to decide right now. But if you want a chance to fight this, Willow… this might be it.”
A sharp, piercing beep erupts from Dr. Marshall’s pager.
His posture stiffens, professionalism clicking into place as he glances down at the device strapped to his waist. Before he even speaks, I hear it—the sudden shift in the air outside my room, the frantic footsteps, the clipped voices rising in urgency.
Something’s happening.
Dr. Marshall mutters a curse under his breath and pivots toward the door. But before he can step out, a nurse’s voice carries from the hallway, her words fast and urgent.
“Hockey player, age twenty-four. Sustained a concussion during practice. Passed out on the way here.”
A hockey player .
My breath catches in my throat, my fingers going cold as my mind instantly jumps to one possibility.
It can’t be. It can’t .
Dr. Marshall’s entire demeanor shifts, his voice sharp and cutting as he snaps at someone just outside my room. “A concussed patient lost consciousness in transit? Jesus Christ , do you know how dangerous that is? Who cleared him to—what’s his name?”
A male voice yells over the commotion. “His name is Damien. Damien Sterling.”
The world tilts. No. My heart lurches violently in my chest, as if trying to tear itself free from my ribs.
I know that name. That name.
Not just any hockey player. Not just any Damien.
My Damien.
I barely register the way my breath stutters, how my fingers curl so tightly into the blanket that my knuckles turn white. The room is suddenly too small, too suffocating, the sound of my own heartbeat pounding in my ears.
I don’t think—I just move.
I shove the blanket off my legs, twisting to get up, but the IV tugs painfully at my arm, along with the heart monitor sticker stuck to my chest and I yank both off of me. My vision swims, my body weaker than I thought, but none of it matters.
I have to see him.
Dr. Marshall turns back just in time to see me struggling, his expression darkening. “Willow, stop .”
But I don’t. I push my weak body forward to the man I love.