Chapter 31
FLIPPING THE HOURGLASS
Sometimes we need time, sometimes we give time
Della
The flight took about three hours to land in Chicago, but it felt like three lifetimes.
As if the sky were in complete resonance with my emotional state, it turned gray with a few touches of dark purple and threatened to rain.
A car was already waiting on the tarmac. David thought of everything, but him not being here makes me feel even more worried. In a half an hour, the driver stops in front of Northwestern Memorial Hospital, and I enter through the glass door with only one thought in mind—find Dorian.
After taking a few elevators and navigating lots of turns and colored corridors, I finally find David and Flor in a private waiting area on the surgical floor.
Flor is sitting on a vinyl chair, her head in her hands. David is pacing, his suit jacket gone, his white shirt stained with dried blood at the side. The moment I realize that is Dorian’s blood, I need to lean against the wall to keep from falling.
"Della."
Flor sees me first. She stands up, her face crumbled with exhaustion, and rushes to hug me. We haven’t seen each other since I first left, but it feels like yesterday. She is a warm hearted, strong woman and a very good friend to Dorian, and to me.
"Flor…” I hug her tight, but I need to know. ”Where is he? Is he out of surgery?"
"They moved him to the ICU," David says, approaching, his voice rough. He can’t look me in the eye. "He made it through the surgery. He’s alive, Della."
The relief hits me so hard my knees buckle, but I lock them.
Alive. That’s all that matters.
I look again at the blood on David’s shirt. "What happened? Please, tell me."
"You may want to sit down, first.” As I sit, David takes a deep breath and finally meets my gaze. “We found Andy. Andy Moldovan.”
Andy. The name sends a violent tremor through me. The monster of my nightmares. I instantly press my palms against my belly as if even his name could damage something inside me.
"Andy... is in Chicago?" I whisper, the old fear trying to claw its way up my throat.
"He was," David says, his expression hardening into something lethal.
“Dorian asked me to find him after the night you spent at the lake house. Dorian wanted to make him pay for everything he did to you. After some deep digging, I found out he left your country for Germany, at first. There, he got involved with the Russian mafia and, finally, came to Chicago, two years ago.”
Memories flash—the coma, the police, the empty trail.
After I woke up from my coma and managed to talk to the police, it was already too late.
Andy Moldovan was nowhere to be found. The police eventually stopped looking, dismissing me as just another abused young woman, and moving on to bigger, more important cases to solve.
At that time, I was fighting so many emotional breakdowns that I simply assumed Andy returned to the darkness he came from, convinced he only lived in my nightmares. I locked him away with everything that happened and pretended it never did.
Knowing that Andy was walking freely in the same town, sends shivers through my body. I will definitely have to call dr. Davis and talk about it.
I can feel Flor taking my hand and pulling me out of my thoughts.
“How… Why did he shoot Dorian?” I ask.
“We were planning a trap for Andy. It was a very delicate matter; we had to be careful with the Russians. But Dorian didn’t want to wait anymore. He knew you came back from the trip, and he wanted Andy gone, now. He confronted him at the distillery. He wanted Andy to know exactly why he was dying.
He did it for you, Della. He handed Andy over to the Russians, but... Andy had a holdout piece. A small caliber."
David’s voice cracks with self-loathing. "I missed it."
"Where is Andy now?" I ask, my voice surprisingly steady.
"Gone," David says simply. "He will never hurt anyone again. The Russians don’t like traitors."
A complex storm of emotions crashes over me.
First, relief—the nightmare is over, the man who broke me is really gone into the darkness he came from. For real, this time.
Then, awe and love and gratitude, all at the same time. Dorian faced him and made him pay for what he did to me. He risked his life for me.
And finally, a white-hot fury.
Andy hurt Dorian. Even in his defeat, that parasite managed to strike the man I love. The injustice of it burns the tears out of my eyes.
* * *
Ten minutes later, a surgeon enters the waiting room. Dr. Bakkal. She looks tired but composed.
I step forward before she can speak. "I'm Della Toma, his partner. Please, tell me everything."
Dr. Bakkal looks at me, assessing my state, and seems to decide I can handle the truth.
"Mr. Marshall sustained a gunshot wound to the lower right abdomen," she begins, her tone clinical but kind.
"The bullet caused significant damage to the muscle wall and nicked the liver, which resulted in massive blood loss.
We are exceptionally lucky; the liver "nick" was highly superficial. The bullet trajectory missed the intestines, kidneys, and major arteries. That was our biggest challenge—keeping his pressure up.”
I nod, my hand unconsciously drifting to the sapphire necklace, grounding myself.
"We’ve repaired the damage," she continues. "However, his body has gone through immense trauma. We have placed him in a medically induced coma to lower his metabolic demand. Essentially, we need him to sleep so he can heal without fighting the ventilator."
"The ventilator?" I ask, the word tasting like ash.
"Yes. He needs assistance breathing right now. The next forty-eight hours are critical. We are monitoring for two main threats: sepsis from the abdominal wound and secondary hemorrhage."
She pauses, softening her expression. "But he is young, and he is incredibly strong. His heart rate is stable. The most optimistic scenario is that we wake him up in two days. From there, he will look at a week or two in the hospital, and a few months for full physical recovery."
"And the worst scenario?" I ask, because I need to know the enemy.
"The worst is infection or organ failure," she says honestly. "But we are doing everything to prevent that. He’s a fighter, Ms. Toma. Now, he just needs time."
"Thank you," I whisper.
Time.
The irony hits me like a physical blow. The last time we faced each other, I was the one asking for time. I demanded space to heal myself.
Now, the Universe has flipped the hourglass. He is the one who needs time. He is the one who needs to go away—into the dark, into the sleep—to heal.
I understand now the agony he must have felt waiting for me. It is a collision of impossible feelings: the desperate need to hold the person you love, warring with the terrified knowledge that you must let them go so they can survive.
I made him wait for my heart. Now, I will wait for his life.
"You can see him in a few minutes," she adds. "He will be taken to the private suite. But just one visitor. He needs rest."
“I can stay with him, Della,“ David says, his voice heavy with exhaustion. “You can go with Flor; the guest room is ready. You must be tired after the flight.”
“I am tired, but I am not leaving his side.” I reply, meeting David’s eyes. “You should go home, David. Both of you. You’ve been here for very long hours and need to rest.”
“Are you sure, Della?” Flor asks, stepping forward and gently taking my hand. “We can stay, if you need us.”
“I’ll be fine. Don’t worry.”
“His suite is designed for overnight stays, ma'am,” Dr. Bakkal interjects quietly. “There’s a small cot and bathroom. You will be able to stay.”
“See? You go rest. I’ll stay.”
“Ok. We will come back in the morning,” David says, relenting, the weight of the last twenty-four hours finally crushing his shoulders.
I hug them both and am truly grateful to have them.
* * *
The ICU is a world of sound. Beep... beep... beep. The rhythmic, mechanical hiss of the ventilator. The low hum of fluids being pumped.
I wash my hands and put on an isolation gown, my movements mechanical. I am delaying the moment. I am terrified of what I will see.
I take a deep breath, push the curtain aside, and step in.
My breath hitches in a sob I barely suppress. I have to grab the back of the visitor’s chair to steady myself.
Dorian.
He looks... small. The man who fills every room with his presence, whose energy is a force of nature, looks utterly diminished against the stark white sheets. A thick tube is taped to his mouth, breathing for him. Wires are stuck to his chest, his arms, his fingers.
He was always the strong one and seeing him like this—still and silent—feels wrong.
A tear escapes, hot and fast, tracking down my cheek. I wipe the tear away and pull the chair close to the bed, and sit. I reach through the tangle of wires and take his hand. It’s big and warm. Familiar.
"I'm here," I whisper, my voice trembling but gaining strength with every word. "I’m right here."
He doesn't move. The machine hisses in reply, pumping air into his chest.
"I’ll wait for you, my love,” I squeeze his hand, careful of the IV port. "Just don't take too long, okay?"
The mechanical sounds are just too much to bear now. I need to drown out the beeping and the hissing.
I pull out my phone and open the playlist created with all the songs he sent me over the last few weeks. I set the volume low, letting the melody bleed into the sterile quiet. “Our” song plays first, the familiar notes immediately pushing the tension from my shoulders.
Then, I open our chat history and scroll through the poems he sent.
"I always knew you were the poetic type," I say, a watery smile touching my lips as I look at his sleeping face. "From the first time we met, I knew there was a poet’s soul hidden under those suits and hard glare."
I lean closer, brushing a stray lock of dark hair from his forehead. His skin is fever-hot, damp. I kiss his knuckles, pressing them against my cheek.
"Thank you," I whisper, the tears falling freely now, but soft tears, healing tears. "For waiting, for understanding, for accepting. Thank you for fighting for me. Thank you for being in my life.”
I stand next to his bed and move his hand lower, just for a second, pressing his large palm gently against my flat belly.
"I have something… important to tell you," I promise him, my voice soft. "But I need to look you in the eyes when I tell you. So, fight, Dorian. Fight for us."
* * *
Dorian
There is no time here. There is only the Cold. It wraps around me like heavy velvet, pulling me down, down, down. It’s peaceful in the dark.
There is no pain here. No burning in my side. No noise. Just a long, endless drift into silence.
Let go, the darkness whispers. You are tired. You have fought enough.
I’m tired. My bones feel like lead. It would be so easy to stop. To just... sink.
But then, I hear it.
A voice. A vibration that cuts through the water. Her voice.
“I’m here.”
The voice is a tether. It wraps around my wrist, tight and unyielding. It burns, but it’s a good burn. It’s the burn of life.
“I’ll wait for you, my love.”
The darkness pulls harder, heavy and seductive. She is safe, it whispers. You did your job. You can rest now.
“Fight for us.”
Her warm sweet voice cuts through the cold.
I reach for the sound of her voice. I kick against the darkness.
I try to move, but I have no body.
I try to scream, but I have no breath.
* * *
Della
Night has fallen over Chicago. The window of the private suite reflects the room back at me—the machines, the bed, and the woman sitting beside it.
My stomach gives a sharp, hollow cramp.
I haven't eaten since... I can't remember. A bagel in San Diego? That feels like a week ago.
My instinct is to ignore it. To starve. To sit here and hold his hand until he wakes up, punishing myself with deprivation until he is safe. That’s what the old Della would have done.
But then, the cramp comes again, followed by a wave of dizziness.
“We have to be strong. All three of us.”
I look at Dorian. He hasn't moved, but his stats on the monitor are steady. The rhythmic whoosh of the ventilator is the only lullaby we have.
"I have to go for a minute," I tell him, my voice raspy. "Don't you dare go anywhere."
I stand up, my legs stiff. The walk to the cafeteria feels like moving underwater, but it is actually a good thing to move. I look at the food stations, nausea lurking at the edges.
Eat, I command myself. Not for you. For sweet pea.
I decide for a soup and a chicken salad. Something light. I didn’t realize how hungry I was till I started eating. I smile as I had back to the elevator, hand resting on my stomach. Thank you, sweet pea for taking care of me.
The smile fades when I open the door and I see Dorian inert, connected to all the tubes and beeping machines. So, I take a deep breath.
He will be fine. He must be.
I lower the side rail and carefully, so carefully, curl up on the small space of mattress beside his hip, avoiding the tubes and wires.
I rest my head near his shoulder, inhaling the scent of antiseptic and... underneath it... him. Cedar and rain.
I place one hand on his chest, feeling the mechanical rise and fall, and the other on my stomach.
"I've got us," I whisper into the silence. "I'm holding the line now, Dorian. Just find your way back to it."
I stay like that for a long time—one hand anchored over his heart, the other shielding the tiny flicker of life inside me.
The past is gone. The future is to come.
But right now, this is the whole Universe, condensed into one simple hospital bed: you, me, and sweet pea.
The rhythm of the machine slows my own racing pulse and the room blurs.
Slowly, the weight of the day pulls me down into a dreamless sleep.