Marry For Convenience Book 3

Chapter 114 Two Years

Clara woke to the sound of machines breathing.

It wasn't her own breath - it was something mechanical, rhythmic, and utterly relentless. The steady hiss and click of a ventilator, the persistent beep of a heart monitor, and the soft, clinical whir of IV pumps pushing medication through plastic tubes.

For a disorienting moment, the world was nothing but white noise.

Then the pain hit.

It was sharp. Burning. A white-hot lance of agony that tore through her left side and dragged a ragged gasp from her throat.

"Easy. Don't move."

The voice was instantly familiar. Warm, but heavily weighted with exhaustion.

Clara's eyes struggled to focus. The fluorescent lights overhead were too bright, too harsh. She blinked against the blinding glare until the blurry shapes resolved into colors, and then finally - Celina.

Her sister sat in a chair pulled close to the edge of the mattress, her face pale and drawn. Dark circles bruised the skin under her eyes, and her hair was pulled back in a messy, forgotten ponytail. She looked like she hadn't slept in days.

"Celina?" Clara's voice came out as a hollow rasp, her throat raw and dry.

Celina was on her feet instantly. She reached out, grasping Clara's hand and squeezing it so tightly it almost hurt.

"You're awake," Celina whispered, her voice cracking under the weight of the words. "Oh God, Clara... you're awake."

Clara tried to shift, to sit up, but her body flatly refused to cooperate. The pain in her side flared, vicious and unforgiving, forcing a choked sound from her lips as she fell back against the pillows.

"Don't," Celina said quickly, her free hand pressing gently but firmly against Clara's shoulder. "You were shot. You need to stay absolutely still."

Shot.

The single word shattered the mental fog, triggering a terrifying cascade of memories - fragmented, chaotic, and painted in blood and gunfire.

The abandoned warehouse. The cold, unforgiving concrete floor. The single overhead light casting harsh, sweeping shadows.

Dominic, slumped in a chair, dark hair matted with blood.

Jasmine, small and terrified, tears streaming down her face.

Warren Johnson, his eyes wild with unhinged rage, a gun leveled in his hand.

And then... the final seconds. Jasmine running. The gun rising. Clara throwing herself forward, shielding the little girl with her own body. The deafening, metallic crack of the gunshot. The crushing impact. The fall into darkness.

"Jasmine," Clara gasped. Her heart suddenly raced, causing the monitor beside her bed to shriek a frantic alarm. "Where's Jasmine? Is she - "

"She's safe," Celina said immediately, her tone firm and anchoring. "She's perfectly fine, Clara. Not a single scratch on her. She's with Justin and Leo right now. They're taking care of her."

The wave of relief was so intense it made Clara dizzy. She closed her eyes, fighting back hot tears, her chest heaving as she forced herself to breathe through the agony. "She's okay," Clara whispered. "She's really okay."

"Because of you," Celina said softly, her eyes shining. "You saved her life."

Clara shook her head, the slight movement sending fresh waves of pain radiating through her torso. "Dominic saved her. He threw himself - "

She cut herself off. She opened her eyes, looking directly at her sister, and saw the devastating truth written in Celina's face before she could even ask the question.

"No," Clara breathed.

"He's alive," Celina said in a rush, desperate to soothe her. "But Clara - "

"Where is he?" Clara demanded. She tried to push herself up again, completely ignoring the screaming protests of her body. "I need to see him. I need - "

"He's in surgery," Celina broke in, her voice fracturing. "He's been in surgery for eight hours."

The world tilted on its axis. Eight hours. "What happened?" Clara whispered.

Celina's eyes finally overflowed, tears spilling down her cheeks. "The bullet hit his chest. It tore through his lung and... it nicked his heart, Clara. He lost so much blood. The paramedics didn't know if he'd even survive the ambulance ride."

Clara felt something crack deep inside her chest - something vital and irreparable. "No," she said, but the word lacked any real strength. "No, he can't... he can't die. He saved us. He saved Jasmine. He can't leave."

"The doctors are doing everything humanly possible," Celina promised, though the terror in her voice undermined the reassurance. "Dr. Thornton is one of the best cardiac surgeons in the country. If anyone can pull him back, it's - "

The heavy door swung open.

A woman in surgical scrubs walked into the room.

She looked to be in her late fifties, her silver hair pulled tightly back, her kind eyes framed by lines of profound exhaustion.

She held a medical tablet, wearing the careful, entirely neutral expression doctors use when they are preparing to deliver news no one wants to hear.

"Ms. Quinn," the woman said softly. "I'm Dr. Sarah Mitchell. I performed your surgery."

"I don't care about my surgery," Clara interrupted, her voice raw and fierce. "Tell me about Dominic Ashford. Tell me he's going to make it."

Dr. Mitchell's clinical mask didn't slip, but something flickered in her eyes.

Sympathy. Respect. Grief. "Mr. Ashford is still on the operating table," she said carefully.

"Dr. Thornton is currently working to repair severe damage to his lung and the pericardium - the protective sac surrounding his heart. The bullet caused extensive trauma. There has been a catastrophic amount of blood loss."

"Is he going to survive?" Clara asked. She hated how small her voice sounded. How desperately fragile.

Dr. Mitchell hesitated.

That single, fleeting hesitation told Clara everything she dreaded to know.

"We are doing everything we can," Dr. Mitchell stated. "But I won't lie to you, Ms. Quinn. The next twenty-four hours are absolutely critical. If he makes it through the surgery and manages to stabilize overnight, his prognosis improves significantly."

"And if he doesn't?" Clara whispered.

The doctor’s heavy silence was answer enough.

The tears came then - hot, fast, and unstoppable, streaming down Clara's face as the full, crushing weight of reality collapsed over her.

Dominic might die.

The man who had thrown himself in front of a bullet to protect his daughter. The man who had looked at her with those dark, piercing eyes and made her feel truly seen in a way no one else ever had.

The man she had been so agonizingly careful not to fall in love with.

Too late. It was tragically too late, because she had already fallen. And now, she might lose him before she ever got the chance to tell him the truth.

"I need to see him," Clara said, her voice breaking. "The second he is out of surgery, I need to be there."

"You need to rest," Dr. Mitchell countered gently. "You have been through a massive trauma yourself. The bullet tore straight through your side - you are incredibly lucky it missed your vital organs, but your blood volume is low. Your body demands time to heal."

"I don't care," Clara fired back, a sudden fierce strength returning to her eyes. "I don't care about my body. I care about him. Please. I have to see him."

Dr. Mitchell looked at Celina, then back to the desperate determination burning in Clara’s expression.

Realizing she wouldn't win this battle, the doctor nodded slowly.

"When he is out of surgery and stable enough for a brief visit, I will have the staff notify you. But you must understand - he will not be conscious. He will be heavily sedated and on life support. He won't be able to respond to you."

"I don't care," Clara repeated. "I just need to know he's breathing."

Dr. Mitchell offered a tight nod and slipped out of the room.

Left in the quiet hum of the room, Clara stared blankly at the ceiling, listening to the agonizing beep of her own monitors, and made a silent, unshakeable vow.

If Dominic survives this, I am never letting him go. Never.

The hours crawled by with torturous slowness.

Celina never left her side, holding her hand, offering water Clara couldn't swallow and food she couldn't stomach.

Sometime after midnight, the door opened again, and Justin walked in. His broad shoulders were hunched with worry, his face a mask of exhaustion.

"How is Jasmine?" Clara asked immediately, her voice hoarse.

"Asleep, finally," Justin sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "She wouldn't let go of Leo. Kept crying, asking for you and Dominic." He paused, his expression darkening as he looked at Clara. "What do I tell her, Clara? When she wakes up in the morning and asks where her dad is?"

Clara's throat tightened painfully. "Tell her he's a hero. Tell her he saved her life."

"And if he doesn't make it?" Justin asked quietly. The raw pain in his voice was clear; over the last few weeks, he had grown to deeply respect Dominic, seeing firsthand the depths of the man's character.

"He'll make it," Clara insisted, because the alternative was a black hole she refused to look into. "He has to."

At four-thirty in the morning, Dr. Thornton finally appeared in the doorway.

He was still clad in his surgical scrubs, his cap dangling loosely from his hand. His face was a ghostly grey with fatigue, and there were dark splatters of blood on his clogs.

Clara bolted upright, completely ignoring the blinding, tearing pain in her side. "How is he?" she demanded.

Dr. Thornton pulled off his surgical mask. For one terrifying heartbeat, Clara thought she saw defeat in the slump of his shoulders.

Then, he spoke. "He made it through."

The rush of relief was so overwhelming Clara genuinely thought she might black out.

"But," Dr. Thornton continued, causing her heart to seize up all over again, "the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours are a battleground. We successfully repaired the lung and the pericardium, but the trauma was extensive. He lost nearly half his blood volume. Right now, he's in the ICU.

He's heavily sedated and hooked up to a ventilator to do the breathing for him while his body attempts to heal."

"Can I see him?" Clara pleaded.