24. Willow
24
WILLOW
N ot fucking again.
My eyes snap open, and I immediately know something is wrong. Tubes. Wires. The steady, unnatural hum of a machine forcing my blood through it. A tightness grips my chest, like something massive is sitting on it.
I try to move, but my body feels heavy, sluggish. Panic claws its way up my throat as I register the thick tube running down it. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe .
A strangled noise escapes me—half gasp, half scream—as my hands flail against the bed, yanking at whatever is keeping me tethered. The machines beep wildly in protest, alarms blaring, the sound slicing through my skull.
The door bursts open.
A nurse rushes inside, her cropped gray hair slightly disheveled, her expression calm but urgent. “Willow! Stop—listen to me. You’re safe. ”
I shake my head violently, the panic surging. My hands scrabble at the tubing, my fingers catching on plastic and tape, desperate to get it off me.
The nurse— Nina , her name tag says—reaches for my wrists, her grip firm but gentle. “Willow, you’re on ECMO. It’s helping your heart and lungs recover. You’re breathing through a machine right now .”
My pulse hammers in my ears. I try to yank away, but I’m weak—so weak . Tears blur my vision as I squeeze my eyes shut, my chest heaving in frantic, shallow jerks.
“Look at me,” Nina says firmly. “You are okay . The tube is helping you. I need you to calm down, or you’ll hurt yourself .”
I force my eyes open, locking onto hers. Her gaze is steady, reassuring. She presses a button on the machine beside me, and a soft hiss of medication filters through the IV in my arm.
The panic ebbs slightly, but my body still trembles. My throat burns from the tube, and I hate the way the machine owns my breath, every inhale and exhale dictated by something outside of me.
Tears spill down my temples. I’m alive. But barely.
Nina brushes damp hair from my forehead. “You scared a lot of people, you know,” she says softly. “It’s outside of visiting hours but let me see if they’re still terrorizing people in the waiting room.”
I watch her go, my heart pounding in a rhythm that still doesn’t feel like my own. The machine keeps breathing for me, each rise and fall of my chest a reminder that I don’t have full control over my own body .
Footsteps. Fast. Heavy.
The door swings open, and suddenly they’re there.
Vincent shoves past Nina first, his face pale, his usually bright blue eyes wide with panic. “Willow?” His voice is raw, like he’s been screaming. Or crying.
Damien follows right behind him, his jaw clenches as his gaze sweeps over me, taking in the tubes, the wires, the machine keeping me alive. Cast is the last one through the door, and the moment his eyes lock on mine, a weight lifts off his shoulders and he sighs.
“Oh, thank fuck,” Damien breathes, collapsing into the chair beside my bed. His hand finds mine, gripping it tight, his thumb running over my skin like he’s trying to memorize every inch of me. “I thought—” His voice cracks, and he swallows hard. “I thought we lost you.”
I squeeze his hand as much as I can, though my strength is pathetic. The tube down my throat stops me from saying the words I want to— I’m here. I’m alive.
Damien exhales sharply, then presses his lips to my forehead, lingering there for a long moment. His touch is uncharacteristically gentle, like he’s afraid I’ll shatter beneath him.
“You scared the shit out of us,” Vincent mutters, his voice rough.
Cast pulls up on my other side, gripping my free hand between both of his. His green eyes burn, flicking between my face and the machines keeping me alive. “Can we take the tube out?” His voice is hoarse. Desperate. “She’s awake. She’s trying to talk. ”
Nina shifts beside them, with a kind and empathetic expression on her face. “I’ll page the doctor. If she’s strong enough, we can remove it.”
The three of them snap their heads toward her like a pack of wolves waiting for permission to strike.
“She’s strong enough,” Vincent says immediately. “Right, Willow?”
I blink once. A yes.
Damien looks at Nina. “Then call the damn doctor.”
Nina hesitates for half a second before nodding and stepping out into the hallway.
The moment she’s gone, Vincent presses my hand to his lips, his breath warm against my skin. “We’re right here, baby,” he murmurs. “You’re not alone.”
The doctor arrives minutes later, a tired-looking man with wire-rimmed glasses and an air of quiet authority. He checks my vitals, murmurs something to Nina, then turns to the guys.
“She’s stable enough. We can remove the tube,” he says. “But it’s going to be uncomfortable. She’ll need to follow my instructions, and you need to stay calm.”
Vincent’s grip on my hand tightens. “Just do it.”
The doctor nods and steps closer, his gloved hands moving with practiced efficiency. “Willow, I need you to take a deep breath when I tell you, then cough as I pull the tube out, okay?”
I manage a weak nod, my throat already burning in anticipation .
“On three. One… two… three. ”
I inhale as deep as I can, then gag as he starts pulling. The sensation is awful—like something slithering up my throat, scraping against the raw edges. I choke, coughing weakly as the tube slides free. My body convulses, and for a second, I can’t breathe at all.
Then air rushes in, and I gasp, my lungs finally my own again.
Vincent’s hands are on my face, smoothing my damp hair back. “Breathe, baby, just breathe.”
I do, sucking in unsteady gulps of air. My throat is raw, my chest aching, but I can breathe on my own. The machine still pumps my heart for me.
Damien grabs a cup of ice chips from the bedside table, scooping a few onto a spoon and bringing it to my lips. “This’ll help.”
I let him feed me the ice, the cold melting across my tongue, soothing some of the rawness. When I finally speak, my voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper.
“What… happened?”
The three of them exchange a look, a silent debate passing between them.
Then Cast exhales and runs a hand through his curls. “You were in a car accident, Willow.”
A chill rolls through me. I try to sit up, but Vincent presses a hand to my shoulder, keeping me still.
“Fuck, Damien your birthday. I had-”I shake my head. “How bad was the accident? ”
Vincent’s fingers stroke my cheek, his touch painfully tender. “Your car was completely totaled and your heart… it took too much damage.” His voice catches. “You need a new one.”
“No,” I whisper. My whole body starts to shake. “No, I—I can’t do this again.”
Tears blur my vision, my breath turning ragged. Three. This would be my third heart. My body keeps rejecting them, keeps breaking, keeps trying to die. It doesn’t want me to live.
My hands curl into the blanket, my nails digging into the thin fabric. “I can’t—” My voice cracks, and the sob breaks free. “I can’t keep doing this. My body doesn’t even want me here.”
“Hey. Hey.” Vincent cups my face, his forehead pressing against mine. “Stop that. Don’t say that.”
Damien’s hand slides over my knee, grounding me. “We’re not losing you.”
Cast squeezes my fingers, his voice uncharacteristically soft. “We’ll find you a heart. You’re not going anywhere.”
My chest heaves, my breath still uneven. I want to believe them, but I’m so tired.
Vincent tilts my chin up, forcing me to meet his gaze. “If you won’t fight for yourself, if you won’t fight for us—” His voice drops, his thumbs brushing away my tears. “Then fight for the baby.”
I freeze. The what?
My eyes dart between them, my pulse roaring in my ears. “What… what baby?”
Damien exhales and nods at Vincent. “Tell her. ”
Vincent swallows hard. “Willow… you’re pregnant.”
I stare at them, my breath stalling. My hand moves to my stomach on instinct, pressing against the hospital gown, against the still-flat plane of my belly.
A baby. My baby.
The tears spill faster, but this time, I don’t know what I’m crying for. Relief? Fear? Hope?
“I…” My voice shakes. “I’m?—”
The door swings open again, and a woman in a white coat steps inside, her presence instantly commanding the room. She’s tall, with sharp brown eyes and dark hair pulled into a sleek ponytail. A stethoscope hangs around her neck, and her expression is both professional and kind.
“Willow,” she greets, stepping closer to my bed. “I’m Dr. Patel. I’ve been overseeing your case.”
I swallow, my throat still raw. “My… case?”
She nods, pulling a chair closer and settling into it. “You’ve been on ECMO since the accident. The machine is pumping your blood for you, oxygenating it and giving your heart time to rest.” She glances at the monitors beside me. “But ECMO is not a long-term solution. You need a new heart as soon as possible. ”
A new heart. Again.
The weight of it presses against my ribs. The room feels too small, the walls closing in. My fingers curl into the blanket, gripping it tight.
“How long do I have?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper .
Dr. Patel exhales. “I would say you have three days before serious complications, but we’re actively looking for a donor. Right now, the machine is doing its job, but the longer you stay on it, the higher the risks. Infection. Organ failure.” She pauses. “We need to move quickly.”
I force a breath into my lungs, steadying myself. My fingers tremble as I press them against my stomach. “And… the baby?”
Dr. Patel’s lips press into a thin line. “Willow…” She hesitates, then continues. “Pregnancy under normal conditions is already demanding on the heart. But with your condition, it’s incredibly dangerous. The extra strain on your cardiovascular system, especially with ECMO, puts you at an extremely high risk of heart failure.”
The air in my lungs turns thick and unsteady. I shake my head, gripping my stomach as if I can somehow shield the life inside me from her next words.
She exhales. “I strongly recommend termination. Carrying this pregnancy while waiting for a transplant—while undergoing a transplant—is a life-threatening risk for both you and the baby.”
A sharp, painful silence falls over the room. The guys stiffen.
Vincent’s hand curls into a fist, his knuckles going white. “Then it’s not even a question,” he says, his voice sharp, final. “You need the surgery. The baby can’t survive that. You might not survive that. We’re not risking you, Willow.”
Cast exhales slowly, rubbing a hand down his face. When he looks at me, his green eyes are unreadable, but there’s something cold, calculated, in them. “Vincent’s right.” His voice is eerily calm. “There’s only one you. We can have more kids, but we can’t replace you. ”
My stomach drops. A sharp, burning panic grips my chest. “You want me to—” My breath shudders. “You want me to get rid of our baby? ”
Vincent’s jaw tightens. “We want you alive. ”
Tears sting my eyes, and I shake my head violently. “No.” My voice cracks, but I force it out, steady, unwavering. “No. I’m keeping this baby.”
Damien steps forward then, the tension in his body easing just slightly. “If that’s what she wants,” he says, his voice firm but calm, “then that’s the decision. We back her.”
Vincent spins on him. “Damien, be reasonable. If she goes through with this, she could die. You know that, right? This isn’t some small risk, it’s?—”
“I know,” Damien cuts him off, his expression hard. “I know what the risks are. But it’s her choice, not ours.”
A heavy silence falls over the room. Cast looks away, jaw clenched, his hands on his hips like he’s trying to hold himself together. Vincent stares at me, betrayal flickering in his blue eyes, like he can’t understand how I could do this.
My hands press protectively over my stomach.
“It’s my body,” I say, my voice raw, but certain. “And I’m keeping the baby. End of discussion. ”
Vincent curses under his breath, raking a hand through his hair before turning away. Cast exhales harshly and doesn’t say anything.
Damien moves closer, pressing his forehead against mine, his fingers brushing my cheek. “We’ll figure it out,” he murmurs. “No matter what.”
Dr. Patel nods, her expression calmly reassuring. “I’ll do my best to get you a heart,” she says simply, before turning on her heel and walking out of the room, leaving behind a tension so thick it’s suffocating.
The second the door clicks shut, Vincent exhales sharply, running both hands through his hair before letting out a bitter laugh. “Unbelievable,” he mutters, pacing to the other side of the room. “You’re really gonna put yourself through this? With everything else going on?”
“Yes,” I say firmly, my fingers still curled protectively over my stomach. My heart—my failing, broken heart—beats unevenly in my chest, but I don’t waver. “This baby is mine. I’m not giving up on them.”
Cast shakes his head, his jaw clenching. “And what if your body gives up on you first?” He finally turns to look at me, and there’s something raw, pained in his expression. “Willow, do you have any idea how close we came to losing you? And now you want to put yourself through nine months of strain when your heart is barely working now? ”
“I know it’s dangerous,” I say softly. “I know the risks. But I also know I want this baby.” My throat tightens, and I shake my head. “I refuse to believe I was brought back just to lose them.”
Vincent’s hands curl into fists at his sides. “Goddammit, Willow.” He stalks back toward the bed, lowering his voice. “What happens if we lose both of you? You ever think about that? ”
“Yes , ” I whisper, my voice breaking.
Damien, still standing by my bedside, reaches for my hand, his grip warm, steady. “Then we make sure that doesn’t happen,” he says simply, like it’s that easy.
“W-what does that mean?” I stutter, moving closer to Damien.
He leans his lips brushing against the crown of my head. “Don’t worry your pretty little head about that, Trouble. Let us handle it.”