I’m here for my brother.

Ava's POV

The sterile white lights of the hospital corridor seemed to blur, stretching into an endless tunnel as I walked—no, rushed—toward the surgical waiting lounge. Each step felt heavy, like I was sinking deeper and deeper into a pool of ice water, every muscle protesting the chilling dread that was coiling in my gut. My phone was clutched in trembling fingers, the cold metal digging into my sweaty palm, its screen dark, a mirror to the sudden, suffocating void that had opened within me.

My breath caught in my throat, a ragged gasp that sounded alien in the hushed quiet of the hospital, when I finally reached the nurse’s station. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting a harsh, unforgiving glow on the pale, anxious faces around me.

"I’m here for my brother," I managed to choke out, my voice raw and breathy, as if I’d run a marathon. "Elizabeth… Elizabeth Sinclair. He was in surgery. How is he? Is he out? Can I see him?" The words tumbled out, desperate, a frantic plea for reassurance.

The nurse, a woman with kind, weary eyes, glanced at her chart. Her face, initially neutral, shifted. A profound softness, a pity that felt like a punch to the gut, crept into her expression. That subtle change, that almost imperceptible softening, only made my heart drop faster, a plummeting stone into an abyss.

"One moment, please, Ms. Sinclair," she said gently, her voice hushed, as if afraid to shatter the fragile silence. She stepped away, turning her back to me, to speak to someone at the end of the counter in hushed, urgent tones.

That was all it took. That brief, loaded exchange, the quiet retreat, the sympathetic gaze.

The panic came rushing in, a tidal wave of icy dread that swallowed me whole. It surged from my stomach, clawing its way up my throat, suffocating me. I gripped the edge of the reception counter, the cold metal digging into my palms, leaving painful imprints. My chest felt tight, constricted, as if an invisible band was squeezing the air from my lungs. Something was wrong. Something was terribly, horribly wrong. I knew it with a sickening certainty that went beyond mere intuition.

A tall man in green scrubs approached, his steps slow and deliberate, designed to convey calm. The doctor. Dr. Nair, I recognized him, though his face seemed blurred, distorted by the rising tide of my fear.

His expression was calm—but too calm. Detached. Practiced. The kind of calm that doctors adopt when they are about to deliver devastating news, a professional mask to shield themselves from the raw emotions they routinely face.

“Ava Sinclair?” he asked, his voice low, gentle, but firm.

“Yes,” I breathed, the single word catching in my throat, my voice cracking, fragile as thin ice. “How is he? Is he—did it work? Is he okay?” My mind screamed the questions, but my voice could barely form them.

The doctor hesitated for half a heartbeat. That minuscule pause, that fraction of a second, crushed me more than any word could have. It spoke volumes. It was the moment where hope died.

“There were complications, Ava,” he said carefully, his gaze unwavering, compassionate but resolute. “Significant complications. We lost him for a moment. His heart… there was more internal bleeding than we anticipated. We managed to stabilize him again, but... he’s in critical condition.”

I stared at him, the words hitting me like cold, precise bullets, each one piercing a different part of my soul. “What do you mean… critical?” My voice was barely a whisper, a disbelieving plea. Critical. It was a word that haunted hospital corridors, a death knell in disguise.

“He’s on life support,” the doctor replied gently, his voice softening further, as if to cushion the blow. “We’re doing everything we can, the team is tirelessly monitoring him, but the next 24 hours are… vital. Crucial. We won't know the full extent of the damage until he stabilizes further, if he does.”

I felt the world tilt sideways, the floorboards beneath my feet suddenly precarious, threatening to give way. My vision blurred, the pristine white walls spinning into a dizzying vortex.

No.

No. No. No. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

I had done everything. I had swallowed my pride, a bitter, metallic taste still lingering in my mouth. I had given up my body, surrendered my autonomy, signed a contract with the devil himself, binding myself to a monster. I had become a puppet to Damian Blackwood for this. For Eli. For his life.

Not this. Not more waiting. Not more praying. Not more sleepless nights consumed by terror.

Not this.