Epilogue 2
LAYLA
Those awful beeps…
They sounded distant, but I could hear them. And, more than that, I recognized them.
That insistent, electronic pulse was unfortunately familiar. I’d listened to it for months while accompanying my mother through her final hospital treatments. But that routine had ended four months ago. My mother was gone.
So why did the sound of hospital equipment now haunt my dreams? Or… was this a nightmare?
It made sense. I could feel myself swimming back to consciousness—the feel of a pillow under my head, the murmur of voices around me. But the beeping didn’t stop. It grew louder, more real.
“She’s coming around!” a woman said. A voice I didn’t know.
I forced my eyes open, immediately assaulted by a dizzying brightness. I squeezed them shut again, scrambling to piece together my memories.
New Year’s Eve. I hadn't wanted to go to the party at Camila’s mother-in-law’s mansion, but she’d insisted.
I went, and I instantly regretted it. It wasn't the people; it was me. I just… couldn’t pretend to be okay.
So I decided to leave, with no destination in mind.
I just couldn't go back to my empty apartment.
I was about to call an Uber when someone else, also leaving early, offered me a ride. He was adrift, too.
Who was it?
And then…
Nothing. A black void.
“Layla? Layla, can you hear me?” a different female voice asked.
“What happened?” I managed to croak.
I opened my eyes again, more slowly this time. A woman in a white coat—a doctor—was moving a penlight in front of my face.
“Do you remember your full name?”
“Layla Francis.”
“How old are you?”
“I’m twenty.”
“You’re twenty-one,” she corrected.
Technically. I wouldn't be twenty-one until February, but I wasn't about to argue the point.
“And do you know what day it is?” she continued.
I’d seen the fireworks. I remembered that. I’d left the party, but I wasn’t alone.
Who was I with?
“It’s… January 1st?”
“Good. You remember the date of the accident.”
“What accident? Ouch—” I winced as a sharp pain lanced through my skull, flaring behind my eyes as I tried to sit up. A nurse quickly adjusted the bed, raising the back so I could sit without moving.
“You were in a car accident, Layla,” the doctor explained, her voice disturbingly calm.
A knock at the door drew my attention, but I was still reeling from her words.
“What kind of accident?”
“Don’t worry,” she said, a phrase that instantly made me worry more. “You’ve been in a coma. But your vitals are strong. We just need to run a few more tests to make sure everything is okay with you and your baby.”
With my what?
Then, I heard a male voice and turned toward the door.
“I’m glad you’re awake. We were very worried.”
It took a moment for my brain to process the image.
Sebastian Turner. Camila’s reclusive, widowed brother-in-law. The man I’d exchanged maybe three words with in my life. What was he doing here?
A flash of memory—bitter and sharp—jolted through the fog.
Leaving the party. With him.
The doctor turned to Sebastian. “She’s responsive and oriented. We’ll need to run those tests to check on her and your baby’s health.”
Your baby.
“What do you mean, baby?” My voice was thin with disbelief. This had to be a mistake.
“You’re pregnant, dear. Nine weeks along.”
The world tilted.
Pregnant? How could I be? I hadn’t slept with anyone since…
Wait.
More flashes. A hotel room. The scent of expensive cologne and regret. Heat. Skin. A desperate, mutual need to feel something—anything—other than the crushing weight of our own grief.
I looked at Sebastian, my face burning. We had…
Oh, my God.
The hotel. The sex. The awkward, silent car ride home. And then…
The screech of tires. The shattering of glass. The impact.
Darkness.
A car accident.
“How long?” My voice was a terrified whisper. “How long was I out? What’s the date?”
“Today is March 3rd,” the doctor said gently. “You’ve been in a coma for two months.”
Two months.
I’d gotten into a car, had my life shattered, and lost two months of it.
And I’d woken up pregnant.
By Sebastian Turner. The grieving, millionaire widower I barely knew.
To be continued in...