Chapter 20
Twenty
BAILEY
Hospitals have their own particular shade of white—not snow white, not eggshell white, but soul-crushing institutional white.
The kind that makes the fluorescent lights buzz like angry wasps inside my skull, each flicker a tiny needle behind my eyes.
Everything’s too bright, too clean, too. ..everything.
A nurse with cartoon puppies on her scrubs asks me questions. I nod at intervals and mumble responses while Sebastian watches through the opening between the curtain separating our spaces.
He’s on his phone, pacing in tight circles, running his hand through his hair—a gesture so familiar. My ribs ache with the urge to reach out and stop those perfect fingers mid-sweep.
God, I miss the darkness of the cabin. The way the firelight threw dancing shadows across his face. The sound of his breathing syncing with mine in the quiet.
The way secrets seemed possible there, protected by snow and distance and the unspoken agreement that whatever happened in Alaska stayed in Alaska.
“You’re very lucky,” Puppy Scrubs says for the third time, checking my vitals for the hundredth time.
Her pen scratches across the chart with precise little movements.
Lucky. Right. That’s what you call it when your heart breaks in a place with proper medical care instead of a wilderness cabin where no one can hear the sound.
Someone with a clipboard and more authority than Puppy Scrubs materializes beside my bed, talking about shock blankets and observation periods and potential psychological trauma. The words float past me like so many snowflakes, not quite landing.
All I can focus on is how wrong Sebastian looks in this sterile setting, like a wolf trapped in a pet store.
In the cabin, he was just Sebastian. Here, he’s Sebastian Lockhart, CEO, taking charge, making calls, slipping back into his perfect life like our days together were just a glitch in the system. A temporary power outage, now restored.
“You’re safe now,” another nurse tells me, patting my arm.
I swallow back a laugh that would probably sound too broken to pass as sane.
Safe? Safe isn’t antiseptic, and beeping machines, and people who won’t stop touching me.
Safe isn’t watching Sebastian through a barrier while his world reclaims him piece by piece like some kind of corporate Frankenstein.
In the cabin, safe was his arms around me. Safe was falling asleep to his heartbeat. Safe was knowing that for a few precious days, I wasn’t too much or too loud or too anything—I was just enough.
The lights flicker—one, two, three rapid-fire blinks—and my body tenses like I’m dodging physical blows. A doctor with breath that smells of coffee and mint leans in too close, asking about pain levels. I give him a number, which has nothing to do with my leg.
Through the partially open curtain, Sebastian ends his call.
He looks my way, and for a moment, I see my Sebastian.
The one who collected pinecones for Christmas decorations, who laughed at my snow globe stories, who held me like I was something precious.
His eyes hold mine across the distance, a moment of connection amid the chaos.
Then his phone rings again. His head jerks toward the sound, and the moment shatters like Vegas on frozen ground.
My phone vibrates against the hospital bed rail. Mom’s face lights up the screen.
“Bailey? Oh, thank God, honey. We’ve been so worried!” Her voice breaks on the last word.
“Hey, Mom.” Through the space between the curtained partition, Sebastian glances my way, brow furrowing. I turn toward the window. “I’m fine. Everything’s fine.”
“Fine? You crashed in Alaska! I’m booking a flight right now—Gabriel’s already looking at options. We can be there by tomorrow morning.” Keys clack in the background; she’s probably hunched over her ancient laptop, squinting at the screen through her reading glasses.
“Mom, no. Don’t do that.” I lower my voice, conscious of Puppy Scrubs hovering nearby. “That’s way too much money. I’m okay, seriously. I’ll be home before you can even pack your good sweater.”
“Bailey Monroe, you nearly died.” Her voice cracks with the particular blend of worry and determination that only mothers can perfect after decades of practice. “I’m not letting you go through this alone.”
“The hospital’s releasing me soon. Seriously, it’s just a sprained ankle. Save your money.” I catch Sebastian staring at me, his brow furrowed in that way that means he’s solving a problem in his head. Great. “I’ll see you soon enough, I promise.”
“I don’t care about the money. Your father and I have some savings, and—”
“Mom, please. It’s ridiculous to fly all the way up here just to turn around and fly back with me. I’m really okay.”
I didn’t realize Sebastian had moved closer until his voice interrupts my argument. “Excuse me, is that your mother?” He gestures to my phone, his voice carrying that authoritative tone that probably makes boardrooms fall silent and stock prices fluctuate.
“Yes,” I say, covering the microphone with my palm. “And she’s being stubborn about flying up here.”
“May I?” He holds out his hand for the phone, fingers expectant, used to being obeyed.
Against my better judgment, I pass it to him.
“Mrs. Monroe? Sebastian Lockhart here.” His professional voice has taken over.
“I want to assure you that your daughter is receiving excellent care. ... Yes, ma’am.
... Actually, I’d like to arrange flights for you and your family to come to Alaska.
... No, I insist. It’s the absolute least I can do after your daughter saved us from a much worse crash.
... Yes, my assistant will call you within the hour to arrange everything. ... First class, of course.”
I stare at him, mouth hanging open, as he commits what must be thousands of dollars to bringing my family here without so much as blinking. When he hands the phone back, his expression is unreadable.
“You didn’t need to do that,” I admonish him, covering the microphone again.
“You need your family here.” For a moment, his perfect mask cracks—just a hairline fracture—and cabin Sebastian appears again. “After everything you’ve been through, it’s nothing.”
Before I can argue further, he’s walking away, already on his own phone, making arrangements. My mother’s excited voice filters through my phone as I stare at Sebastian’s retreating back, the way his shoulders set in that determined line.
“Bailey? Are you there? Did you hear what he said? He’s flying us all to you. We’ll be there by morning. Bailey?”
“Yeah, I’m here.” I drag my attention back to my mother. “Told you, I’m fine. Just tired.” Through the reflection in the window, I watch Sebastian take another call, his free hand gesturing in tight, controlled movements. “Look, I should go. They need to do some tests or something.”
“Bailey—”
“I love you, Mom. Bye.”
I hang up before she can hear how my voice cracks on the last word. Before she can ask why I’m crying. Before she realizes that “fine” sounds an awful lot like “falling apart.”
The hospital bed next to mine creaks as Sebastian reaches for the water pitcher, his movements stiff from last night’s battery of tests.
Outside our shared room’s window, morning light reflects off the snow-covered parking lot, casting our little medical prison in a harsh glow that does neither of us any favors.
I glance over at Sebastian’s bed beside mine—his insistence on sharing a room had caused quite the administrative scramble last night.
The hospital staff caved when they realized who he was, though not before suggesting at least fifteen times that someone of his “status” might prefer private accommodations.
“Sleep at all?” he asks, voice rough with morning.
“Between the hourly vitals checks and someone snoring in the next bed? Barely,” I tease, though we both know I spent most of the night watching him breathe, reassuring myself we’d made it.
“I don’t snore,” he protests with mock offense.
“You absolutely do. Like a hibernating bear with sinus issues.”
His laugh transforms into a grimace. “Don’t make me laugh. I think they took half my blood volume for testing.”
“At least your doctor didn’t keep asking if you were experiencing ‘confused thinking or unusual behavior.’ I finally told mine that my usual behavior is already pretty unusual, so how would I know?”
Sebastian’s smile fades. “Bailey, I should warn you—my family’s flying in. Their plane lands in about half an hour.”
Moments after he says that, the cavalry arrives in Gucci and Armani, heralded by squeaking designer shoes on linoleum. A small army of coordinated professionals sweeps through the hospital wing like a designer tsunami, all sharp edges and perfect hair and synchronized movements.
“Mr. Lockhart.” A woman in a suit so perfectly tailored it might be painted on strides forward. “We have everything arranged. Dr. Morrison is here from Chicago to oversee your care personally.”
Sebastian starts to speak, but she’s already directing traffic like a fashion-conscious air traffic controller. “James will handle your luggage. Maria can fix your hair before we board. The jet will be fueled and ready in an hour.”
A man appears with a garment bag. “Your fresh suit, Sir.”
I sink deeper into my hospital bed, trying to disappear into the scratchy sheets. This is his world. All efficiency and luxury, and people who take care of him. After twelve hours of shared hospital food and comparing bruises, reality crashes through our bubble.
The new doctor looks like he stepped out of a medical drama, all silver hair and distinguished features. He takes over from the hospital staff, speaking in the kind of cultured tones that make my teeth itch.
“Bailey.” Sebastian’s voice cuts through the controlled chaos. He hasn’t moved toward the suit or the hairdresser or any of his world’s trappings. He’s looking at me like he’s drowning in designer labels and needs a lifeline.