Chapter 262

He had seen the intricate tattoo that covered her lower abdomen before — a swirling pattern of ink he had dismissed as a way to hide her past. But now, a deep, angry gash from her fall had torn right through the artistry. The force of the impact had ripped the tattooed skin away from the tissue beneath, revealing what it was designed to conceal: a jagged, raised line of pink scar tissue. An unmistakable C-section scar.

He knew immediately what it meant. This was no neat, cosmetic incision made by a Park Avenue surgeon. It was rough. Hurried.

She had been cut open. Alone. Scared. To bring his children into the world.

While he was at a gala with Charla.

The guilt hit him like a fist to the stomach. He doubled over, gasping.

“No, no, no,” Cailin moaned, thrashing against the stretcher. Her eyes were closed, lost somewhere deep in a nightmare.

Hilliard leaned close to her. “I’m here, Cailin. I’ve got you.”

“Run, Elia,” she whimpered. “Run from the bad man. Hide.”

Hilliard recoiled.

She wasn’t fleeing some faceless monster. She was fleeing him. Even in her dying dreams, he was the villain.

“I’m not the bad man,” he whispered, tears cutting through the blood drying on his face. “I’m trying to save you.”

“She’s crashing!” the paramedic yelled. “Charging paddles — clear!”

Thump.

Cailin’s body arched violently off the stretcher.

Hilliard fixed his eyes on the monitor. A flat line. Then a blip. Then another.

“We have a rhythm,” the paramedic said, dragging the back of his hand across his forehead. “Drive faster!”

Hilliard looked down at his hands. They were covered in her blood.

He had chased her. He had cornered her. He had forced her onto that highway, into that ditch, into that cargo hold. He hadn’t saved her — he had hunted her to the very brink of death.

The ambulance screeched to a halt at the emergency bay. The doors flew open and a team of doctors swarmed inside, surrounding her in an instant.

Hilliard was pushed back. He stood on the cold pavement, watching them wheel her away until she disappeared behind the doors.

“Save her,” he whispered to the empty air. “Please. Take everything I have. Just save her.”

The waiting room was sterile and white — a purgatory of fluorescent light.

Hilliard sat with his head in his hands. He hadn’t washed the blood off. He couldn’t. The dried, cracking film on his skin was a penance, a physical sacrament to his failure. To wash it away would be to grant himself a forgiveness he hadn’t earned.

A nurse appeared with a clipboard.

“Mr. Holloway? We need consent for emergency surgery — splenectomy and exploratory laparotomy.”

Hilliard grabbed the pen. His signature was a jagged scrawl.

“Do whatever you have to do.”

Vance Holloway came running down the hall, his bespoke suit rumpled from the urgency of his arrival.

“Hilliard!” He stopped, taking in his cousin’s blood-soaked clothes. “Jesus. Is she…?”

“She’s alive,” Hilliard said, his voice hollow. “Barely.”

“You did this.” Vance didn’t shout. He simply stated it like a fact. “You pushed her until she broke.”

“I know,” Hilliard said.

Gavin approached, holding a phone. He looked reluctant to interrupt, but the gravity on his face allowed no delay.

“Sir. The truck driver.”

Hilliard looked up. His eyes were dead. “What about him?”