Chapter 11 Willow
WILLOW
The voice is small, thready, like it’s trying not to cry. “Mommy…”
For a second, I think I’m dreaming. The sound doesn’t fit the quiet hum of the house—the heater kicking on, the faint tick of the clock. Then it comes again, softer.
“Mommy…”
My eyes snap open. The clock glows 2:17 a.m. The room is dim, air cold where the blanket’s slipped away.
At the foot of the bed stands Penny—barefoot, pale against the dark, her blanket dragging along the rug. Her curls stick to her forehead, cheeks flushed a sickly red.
“Baby?” My voice is rough, still heavy with sleep. “What’s wrong?”
Her lip trembles. “My tummy hurts.”
Sleep evaporates. I throw off the blanket and start toward her—but she sways, lifts a hand to her mouth, and gags.
“Penny—!”
She vomits before I can reach her. It splatters down her pajamas, onto her feet. She gasps, horrified, and starts to cry.
I drop to the floor, catching her shoulders. “It’s okay, sweetheart.” My pulse hammers, but my voice stays even. “You’re okay.”
“I’m sorry,” she sobs, shaking. “Mommy, I didn’t mean to—”
“Oh, baby.” I pull her close, not caring about the mess. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
Her skin burns against mine—clammy, slick. I touch her forehead and jerk back.
“Damien,” I whisper. “Wake up.”
The bedsprings creak. “What’s going on?” he mumbles.
“She’s burning up.” I press my palm to her again. “She’s so hot.”
Damien’s instantly awake, crouching beside us. His hand brushes Penny’s hair, eyes sharpening. “Hey, sweetheart. We got you.”
“It hurts,” she whimpers.
“Where?” I ask.
“My tummy.”
He grabs a towel, wiping her chin with trembling hands. “We’re gonna clean you up, okay?”
I fumble for the thermometer on the nightstand, slip it under her arm. The seconds stretch forever before it beeps: 103.8°F.
My stomach drops. “Damien—it’s one-oh-three point eight.”
He exhales through his nose, steady but clipped. “Alright. Wrap her up. I’ll get the car.”
By the time he’s gone, I’m stripping her out of the soiled pajamas, swapping them for clean ones. Her skin glows hot and damp; her curls cling to her temples. “I know, baby,” I whisper as she whimpers against my shoulder. “We’re going to the hospital. Daddy’s getting the car ready.”
“I don’t wanna go,” she breathes.
“I know. But we have to.”
Footsteps thunder down the hall—Cast’s voice, Vincent’s, Damien’s calm commands.
When I step out, Penny wrapped tight in her blanket, Cast is already outside the twins’ room, hair mussed, eyes sharp despite the hour. Vincent stands beside him, barefoot, face tense as he takes in Penny’s flushed cheeks and limp arms.
Vincent brushes her hair back. “Go. We’ll stay with the kids.”
“Thank you.” My voice barely holds.
Damien calls from downstairs, “Willow! Come on!”
I tighten my hold and follow, breathing in the heat of Penny’s skin. The night air bites as we step outside—snow falling in thin, cold threads. The car engine hums, headlights slicing through the haze.
Damien opens the back door. “Seatbelt over both of you. Keep her close.”
I slide in with Penny, rocking her gently. She’s limp, breath shallow, her skin slick with fever. “It’s okay, baby,” I murmur. “You’re okay.” I’m not sure if I’m saying it for her or for myself.
The tires crunch through snow as Damien drives. His knuckles are white on the wheel, jaw clenched tight.
“How’s she doing?” he asks.
“She keeps shaking.” I brush her cheek; her lashes flutter, lips parting without sound.
“We’ll be there soon.”
The snow thickens, blurring the streetlights. The tires skid once, catching again. My heart stutters.
“Slow down.”
“I’ve got it,” he says—steady, but strained.
Silence fills the car. The wipers drag, Penny’s small breaths the only sound between us. At a stoplight, red glow flickers across his face.
“She’s gonna be okay,” he says softly.
“I know.” The words taste fragile.
The hospital sign appears through the snow. Penny stirs weakly, whimpering.
“Damien—”
“I see it.”
Moments later, we pull into the emergency lane. Before he can reach me, I’m out, holding her tight.
“I’ve got her,” he murmurs, guiding us inside.
The automatic doors part, washing us in fluorescent light and antiseptic air. Penny’s head lolls against me, skin burning.
“Please,” I tell the nurse, breathless. “She’s got a fever—she’s been vomiting—she’s not waking up all the way.”
“How old?”
“Seven.”
“Come with me.”
Damien’s hand finds my shoulder as we follow her down the hall, grip so tight it hurts—but I don’t let go of Penny.
The monitor’s steady beep has become a kind of lullaby.
Penny’s fever broke around dawn, but I can’t stop touching her—her neck, her cheeks—just to make sure. Her skin is cool now, a faint sheen of sweat drying on her temples. I sit on the bed’s edge, tracing slow circles through her curls.
Damien’s across from me, elbows on his knees, hand resting on her leg. His eyes are bruised with exhaustion. Neither of us speaks for a long time.
Finally, he exhales. “I thought we were gonna lose her tonight.”
I meet his eyes, throat tight. “Me too.”
He stares at the blanket. “When she stopped crying in the car… I thought—” His voice breaks; he presses a hand over his mouth.
“Hey.” I reach for him. “She’s here. She’s okay.”
He nods shakily. “You don’t know how bad it scared me, seeing you holding her like that. I couldn’t do anything but drive.”
“You got us here,” I whisper.
He lets out a broken laugh. “I’d drive through hell if I had to.”
He looks at Penny again, brushing her hair back. “You scared us, bug. Don’t ever do that again.”
She stirs, sighs softly.
“I think it’s the flu,” he murmurs.
“Maybe,” I say, though my voice feels thin. “They’re running tests. Something about her white cell count.”
The door creaks. A young doctor steps in—glasses, coffee stain on his coat, tired eyes that still manage warmth.
“Mr. Sterling and Mrs. Beaumont?” he says softly. “I’m Dr. Keller. I’ll be taking over Penny’s care.”
He glances at the monitor, then at us. “She’s resting well. Her fever’s down, fluids are helping. But the scans show some fluid in her right lung—early-stage pneumonia.”
The word hits like a blow. I feel Damien stiffen beside me.
“She had the flu last month,” I whisper. “How—?”
“It happens fast,” Dr. Keller says gently. “But you caught it early. That’s what matters.”
Damien’s voice is tight. “How bad?”
“Not severe. We’ll start antibiotics, monitor oxygen. She’ll stay a few days.”
My hand trembles on her blanket. Penny looks impossibly small under the wires and tape, lashes fluttering with each shallow breath. “She’s going to be okay?”
“Yes,” he says firmly. “You did everything right. She’ll recover quickly.”
Damien drags a hand down his face. “What do we do now?”
“Stay with her,” Dr. Keller replies. “If she keeps improving, she’ll be home before Christmas.”
I nod, brushing a curl from her forehead. “She hates hospitals,” I whisper.
He smiles kindly. “Then we’ll do our best to get her home soon.”
He gives us both a reassuring nod before stepping back toward the door. “I’ll check on her in an hour. If her breathing changes, call the nurse right away.”
When the door closes, the silence rushes back in like a wave.
For a long moment, neither of us moves. Then Damien exhales, his voice barely above a whisper. “Pneumonia.”
I nod, swallowing hard. “I didn’t even see it coming. She was playing fine two days ago—laughing, running around, fucking painting with me at the studio—”
“Hey,” he says quietly, leaning closer. His hand finds mine on the bed, his thumb pressing into my palm. “You couldn’t have known. Kids hide that small stuff.”
“I’m her mother,” I whisper, my voice cracking. “I should know—”
He leans forward, pressing his forehead to mine, his voice low but fierce. “I know. But she’s strong, just like her mom.”
The words land somewhere deep, but they don’t stay.
They don’t soothe. They only scrape against the place in me that’s been burning all night.
I can’t look at him anymore. I can’t look at her.
The little oxygen clip on her finger, the IV taped to her wrist, the small rise and fall of her chest that feels too fragile to trust.
The room feels like it’s shrinking. The air too thin, the beeping too rhythmically uneven. I stand up abruptly, pulling my hand from his.
“Will,” Damien says, voice quiet but firm. “Hey—”
“I just—” I can’t even find words. My throat feels raw, my heart pounding as I take a step back from him.
“Where are you going?”
I shake my head, the tears curling around my chin. “I need to step out.”
“Babe—”
“I need to,” I snap, the word shaking through me.
His mouth opens, but whatever he was going to say dies on his tongue. He just nods once. “Okay.”
I turn before I can change my mind. My shoes scuff the linoleum, every step feeling louder than it should. The door opens with a hiss of air, and I walk out fast, like if I stop, I’ll fall apart right there in front of everyone.
The hallway smells of bleach and coffee. A nurse passes me, murmuring a polite “Good morning,” and I nod, though my throat feels too tight to answer. I keep walking until I reach the end of the hall, where the automatic doors open into the small smoking patio.
The morning hits me like a slap—cold air, blinding sunlight reflecting off patches of snow. I squint, raising a hand to shield my eyes, but the brightness makes my head spin.
For the first time in hours, there’s no beeping, no whispers of nurses, no sterile hum of machines. Just air. Real, sharp, winter air.
I step off the concrete and wrap my arms around myself, trying to steady my breathing, but it’s no use. The air outside is too sharp, the light too bright. It feels like the world has the audacity to keep moving while mine stands still.