Chapter 30 Hilary
Chapter Thirty
Hilary
Hospitals are too bright.
Too loud.
Too cold.
I don’t remember the drive.
I don’t remember Nathan parking.
I only remember running the second the engine died.
“Excuse me—excuse me—David Mars. His plane. They said—where is he?”
The receptionist looks up, practiced calm on her face.
“Ma’am, I’m going to need you to—”
“David,” I choke. “David Mars. He was on that plane. Please.”
She types.
Clicks.
The seconds stretch into something unbearable.
“Yes,” she says carefully. “He was brought in.”
Was.
The word slices.
“Is he—?”
“I’m not authorized to release condition details.”
Authorized.
Like this is paperwork.
Like this is routine.
“I need to see him.”
“Are you family?”
The question lands like a physical blow.
“No,” I whisper.
Not legally.
Not on paper.
Not anything that counts.
“I’m sorry,” she says, voice sympathetic but firm. “Only immediate family is permitted at this time.”
Something inside me caves in.
“I love him,” I say, and my voice cracks in half.
She hesitates.
But policy is policy.
“I can let you wait.”
Wait.
So I do. I wait.
The chairs are hard plastic.
The lighting hums overhead.
The news plays silently on a mounted TV across the lobby.
There are already reporters gathering outside the glass doors.
Cameras.
Microphones.
Chaos.
I don’t care.
Nathan sits beside me for the first hour.
Maybe two.
His knee bounces.
He keeps checking his phone.
“Larry,” he says softly, “you should call Ad. She’s worried.”
“Later. And I’m not leaving.”
“I know. I just—”
“I’m not leaving, but you can go, Nate. She needs you,” I tell him.
He studies me for a long second.
Then he squeezes my shoulder.
“I’ll come back in the morning.”
I nod.
I don’t feel anything anymore.
Time stops meaning anything.
Minutes stretch.
The automatic doors slide open and shut over and over.
Every time they move, I look up.
Every time it’s not for me.
I call his phone just to hear his voicemail message.
I pray.
I bargain.
I promise everything to whoever’s listening.
I sit there twelve hours.
Twelve.
My mascara is long gone.
My hands are cold.
My body is numb.
And then—I hear a ruckus. Shouting. Machines beeping.
A nurse hurries into the waiting area.
“Hilary Sinclair?”
I stand so fast the chair scrapes.
“Yes.”
“He’s asking for you.”
My knees almost give out.
They lead me down a hallway that smells like bleach and fear.
My heart is pounding so hard I can hear it in my ears.
The nurse pauses at the door.
“He has a concussion and cracked ribs,” she says gently. “He tried to get out of bed.”
Yeah, that sounds like David.
She opens the door.
And there he is.
Pale.
Bandage wrapped around his head.
Bruising already darkening his jaw.
IV in his arm.
He looks—mortal.
And that almost breaks me.
“David?” My voice shatters.
He turns his head slowly.
His eyes find mine.
Alive. He’s alive.
I cross the room without thinking.
Careful of the wires.
Careful of the monitors.
But I cup his face like I need proof.
We embrace. We say things—so many things.
His fingers curl around my wrist like he needs to anchor himself.
I start crying again.
Because I know.
I know now that this is real.
And then he says it.
“I love you.”
He’s bruised but alive, and he looks terrified of losing me—which just makes me love him more.
So I say it back. Out loud.
Because I do.
I love him so damn much.
The doctor tries to usher me out after a few minutes.
David glares at him like he’s personally offended by gravity.
“She stays,” he growls.
The doctor mutters something about liability and leaves.
David shifts painfully.
“Where are my pants?”
I blink. “What?”
“My pants,” he insists, stubborn even half-drugged.
A nurse sighs and hands over a clear plastic bag with his belongings.
He winces as he pushes himself more upright.
“Don’t,” I say immediately. “You’re hurt.”
“Sunshine,” he murmurs. “Trust me.”
He fishes inside the bag.
His fingers come out stained faintly red.
I gasp.
“Don’t look at the blood,” he says quietly. “Look here at this.”
And then—he pulls out a small blue box.
My brain cannot process it.
Not here.
Not now.
Not after—he flips it open with shaking fingers.
The square cut yellow diamond catches the fluorescent light.
Sharp.
Bright.
Unreal.
“I was bringing this to you,” he says, voice rough but steady. “Before the storm. Before the crash. Before everything.”
Tears spill instantly.
“David—”
“I’m not almost losing you again,” he continues. “I’m not waiting either, Hilary. I need you in my life. For good.”
His eyes lock onto mine.
Fierce.
Certain.
“Marry me, Sunshine. Say yes.”
The hallway outside erupts in noise.
Reporters shouting.
Camera shutters.
The media must have gotten word he’s conscious.
Security is scrambling.
It’s chaos beyond the glass.
But in here?
It’s quiet.
Just him.
Just us.
My heart feels like it’s breaking open.
“You’re an idiot,” I sob-laugh.
“Yeah, but I’m your idiot. So, is that a yes?” he demands, stubborn even now.
I nod.
“Yes.”
He exhales like he’s been holding that breath since the plane dropped.
“Yeah?” he presses.
“Yeah,” I repeat. “Yes, I’ll marry you. I love you. I don’t care about the cameras. I don’t care about the headlines. I just— I love you.”
The nurse gasps softly.
Someone outside yells his name.
Flashbulbs flicker through the blinds.
Magic isn’t supposed to be real.
It’s supposed to be in books.
In fairytales.
But right here—in a hospital room that smells like antiseptic and fear with blood on his clothes and tears on my face—it feels real. It feels earned. It feels like something that survived a storm.
And when he slides the ring onto my finger with trembling hands?
I know.
No matter what the world throws at us—we just proved we can survive it.