Chapter 415
[ 516 words ]
Chapter 415:
From the other end of the hall, the double doors to the surgical wing burst open. A team of nurses pushed a gurney at a near run, heading toward the operating room. It was Donovan’s transport—the pre-op team had come to collect him.
Caroline tore herself from Jarrod’s arms. She rushed to the gurney, her hand finding Donovan’s as he was helped onto the surgical stretcher. “Donovan—”
His eyes locked on hers, filled with a universe of love and regret. His lips moved, forming words that barely carried over the chaos of the hallway.
“Forgive me,” he whispered. “One day. Please.”
Caroline’s throat closed. She couldn’t say the words. Not yet. But she squeezed his hand, a brief, fierce pressure that said what her voice could not.
P𝗼𝘱𝘶𝘭𝘢r ѕ𝘵𝘰r𝗂𝖾s о𝘯 𝘨𝘢𝗹ո𝗼ve𝘭𝘀.𝘤𝘰𝗺
Then the nurses were moving, pushing the gurney through the heavy double doors. The red light above them flickered on, stark and final. SURGERY IN PROGRESS.
Caroline stood frozen, staring at the closed doors, her hand still extended toward the space where Donovan had been.
Time in the hallway outside the operating room stretched and warped. Each tick of the clock on the wall was a slow, deliberate torture.
Caroline slid down the wall until she was sitting on the cold, polished floor, her arms wrapped around her knees. Her eyes were fixed on the glowing red light above the door, a malevolent, unblinking eye. She stared at it with such intensity, as if she could force it to stay lit forever through sheer willpower.
Her hands were ice-cold. She rubbed them together, a small, repetitive motion. “He’ll be okay,” she whispered to herself, the words a desperate, fragile mantra. “Donovan’s going to be okay.”
Jarrod stood over her, a silent, unmoving sentinel. He knelt beside her with deliberate care, his bandaged left hand resting lightly on his knee, his right arm still immobilized in its field splint against his ribs. He leaned his shoulder against the wall, his presence a solid, grounding weight in the swirling chaos of her fear. He could not drape a jacket over her trembling shoulders—his hands would not allow it—but he stayed close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating from his body, a silent shield against the cold.
Further down the hall, on a hard plastic bench, Brenna sat alone, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. She had refused to leave when Julian was called into the operating room. She was not family, but she was the closest thing Caroline had to a sister, and she would not abandon her now. Every few minutes, her eyes flicked to the closed doors, waiting for any sign of news.
One hour bled into the next. Nurses and doctors came and went, their soft-soled shoes squeaking on the linoleum. Only the three of them remained, frozen in their tableau of grief and hope.
The stress began to take a physical toll on Caroline. A sharp, twisting pain started in her abdomen, a knot of pure anxiety. It tightened until she had to curl forward, a soft gasp escaping her lips. Her face went pale, a sheen of cold sweat on her forehead.
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