Chapter 14: Forty-One Hours in Hell
I died three times.
The first time was on the rooftop, the moment the bullet tore through me. I remember the heat, the wet spread across my side, Bella's scream cutting off as the concrete rushed up to meet my face.
The second time was in the chopper. Marcus's hands pressing so hard on the wound I felt ribs crack. Bella sobbing my name over and over like a prayer, her blood-slick fingers tangled in mine. The medic shocking me once—nothing. Twice—nothing. Then a weak blip and the pilot screaming we were two minutes out.
The third time was on the operating table. Four minutes twenty-two seconds. No heartbeat. The surgeon later told Lydia he'd already called it when the monitor suddenly kicked back. He called it a miracle. I call it spite. I wasn't done yet.
I wake up to pain so absolute it feels like my soul is on fire.
Everything hurts. Breathing hurts. Existing hurts.
The room is dim, machines hissing and beeping in a rhythm that says I'm still alive. Tubes in my arms, my nose, my chest. My left side is wrapped so tight I can't move without feeling the pull of stitches and metal pins.
And Bella.
She's curled in the chair beside the bed like a broken doll. My blood still crusts the hoodie she's wearing—my hoodie. Her face is swollen from crying, lips bitten raw, eyes ringed black. One hand is stretched across the bed, fingers locked around mine so tightly her nails have left crescents in my skin.
She hasn't let go. Not once in forty-one hours.
I try to speak. My throat is sandpaper and ash.
A croak comes out.
Her head jerks up.
For a second she just stares, pupils blown wide, like she's terrified I'm a hallucination.
Then she shatters.
The sound that rips out of her isn't human. It's raw, animal, five years of grief and terror and love exploding all at once. She half-falls across the bed, face buried in my neck, body shaking with sobs that sound like they're tearing her apart.
"You fucking bastard," she chokes out between sobs, fists pounding weakly against my chest—careful even now of the wires. "You promised. You promised you wouldn't leave me, you liar, you absolute liar—"
I lift my good arm—God it hurts—and wrap it around her, pulling her as close as the tubes allow.
"I'm sorry," I rasp, voice shredded. "I'm here. I'm here, baby."
She cries harder. The monitors start freaking out from her weight on me, alarms shrieking. Nurses rush in, try to pull her off.
She snarls at them—actually snarls—like a wolf guarding a corpse.
"Touch me and I swear to God I'll break your hands."
They back off. One look at her face and nobody argues.
Marcus appears in the doorway, eyes red, shoulders sagging with relief. Lydia's right behind him, mascara tracks down her cheeks—my sister, who hasn't cried since we were eight.
"You absolute idiot," Lydia whispers, crossing the room in three strides and kissing my forehead hard. "Don't you ever do that again."
Marcus just grips my shoulder, squeezes once, can't speak.
Bella finally pulls back enough to look at me. Her hands cup my face like I'm made of glass.
"You died," she says, voice cracking on every word. "Three times. I watched you die. They wouldn't let me in the OR, I screamed until security dragged me out. I thought—" Her voice breaks completely. "I thought I lost you."
I swallow blood and bile. "Takes more than a bullet."
She laughs—wet, broken, perfect.
The doctor comes in, starts checking vitals, asking the usual questions. I answer in grunts. All I care about is her.
When he leaves, Bella climbs fully into the bed—careful of every wire—and curls against my good side exactly like she did in the penthouse two nights ago.
Like nothing's changed.
Everything has.
She rests her head on my shoulder, fingers tracing the edge of the bandage.
"I haven't slept," she whispers. "Every time I closed my eyes I saw you bleeding out on that roof."
I turn my head—agony shoots down my spine—and kiss her hair.
"Tell me what happened after."
She does.
How Marcus carried me to the chopper while she held the wound closed with her bare hands.
How she threatened to sue the hospital when they tried to keep her out of the ICU.
How Lydia flew in from London on the red-eye and took over the entire floor—paid for every private room so no one could get near us.
How Claudia woke up screaming my name, begging to know if I was dead, crying when they told her I saved her miserable life.
"She wants to see you," Bella says quietly. "Keeps saying she's sorry. That she was wrong about everything."
I close my eyes. "Later."
Bella's silent for a long moment.
Then: "There's something else."
I feel her tense.
"Tell me."
She sits up slowly, reaches for the tablet on the side table. Turns it so I can see.
Security footage. Hospital garage. Six hours ago.
Vanessa.
Nurse's scrubs, brown hair dye, face partially obscured by a mask.
She's carrying something wrapped in a pink blanket—newborn-sized.
Another clip: the maternity ward hallway.
She stops outside a nursery window, stares for a long time.
Then keeps walking.
Bella's voice is pure ice. "She was looking for me. Or for a baby. Security thinks she was going to take one. To hurt you. To hurt us."
I stare at the frozen image of the woman who once wore my ring.
Something dark and final settles in my chest.
"She doesn't get to breathe the same air as you anymore," I say.
Bella meets my eyes.
"Good."
Marcus steps back in, face grim.
"Boss. We found the escape route. Private jet left a runway outside the city three hours ago. Destination: Cayman Islands. Ethan and Vanessa both on the manifest."
I close my eyes.
Let them run.
I'll find them.
I always do.
Bella curls back against me, fingers laced through mine.
"Sleep," she whispers. "I'm not going anywhere."
I do.
For the first time in forty-one hours, the machines stay quiet.
But in the hallway, Lydia hangs up her phone, expression lethal.
"They just crossed into international waters," she says to Marcus.
Marcus cracks his knuckles.
"Then we go get them."
To be continued…