Chapter 9.

~ Sienna’s POV ~

Is this what death feels like?

Just some cold, empty black hole where everything smells like bleach and antiseptic with that annoying beeping sound.

My head hurts as though someone keeps smashing it with a hammer.

Every inch of my body hurts. My arms, my legs. I try to open my eyes, but they feel like they’ve been glued shut. They are heavy, like I’ve been sleeping for a hundred years.

I guess I’m not dead. Dead people don’t feel pain. Dead people don’t feel like they got run over by a truck.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

That sound. It’s a goddamn rhythmic beeping that makes my heart race.

I finally force my eye open and all is see is white as bright blinding lights shine into my eyes, almost forcing me to squeeze them shut again instantly.

“Fuck,” I groan, my throat dry.

I blink rapidly until the room comes into focus.

White. Everything is white.

The walls are white even the bed I’m currently lying in is covered in white sheets. An IV line snaking from my arm to a bag hanging beside me. The beeping is coming from a heart monitor clipped to my finger.

I’m in a hospital. Lying on a hospital bed.

No. No, no, no.

The last time I was in a hospital, I lost my baby.The last time I was in a room like this, a doctor with kind eyes told me my child was gone. Vincent didn’t even come inside.

My hands start to shake. I try to sit up, but the room spins violently. I feel sick, dizzy, an effect of whatever fluid is currently making its way into my system.

I need to get out. I need to leave right now.

I claw at the IV tape on my hand.

“Get off me,” I gasp, tearing at the tube. “Get off me!”

“Whoa, stop. Easy there.”

The voice is deep. Familiar. And terrifyingly close.

A large, warm hand covers mine, stopping me from ripping the needle out of my vein. His grip is gentle but firm.

I flinch violently, scrambling backward against the pillows, ignoring the pain in my body.

“Don’t touch me!” I yell my voice cracking.

The hand is removed and even the heart monitor starts going crazy as though it senses the panic in me.

Beep-beep-beep-beep.

I look around the room trying to make sense of where I am.

This isn’t a normal hospital room. It’s huge. There’s a plush beige armchair in the corner, expensive blinds covering a massive window, and a flat-screen TV on the wall.

This is a rich person’s room. This place costs money I don’t have.

My gaze lands on the man sitting in the chair beside my bed. He’s leaning forward, elbows on his knees, watching me with an intensity that makes the hair on my arms stand up.

He has dark hair that looks as though he has been running his hand through them. His eyes are dark.

And he is... Good looking. Devastatingly so. The kind of looks that belong on magazine covers.

“Who—” I gasp, struggling to catch my breath. “Who are you?”

He opens his mouth to speak, but the door opens before he can get a word out.

“Ah, you’re awake. Good.”

A woman walks in. She looks like she is in her late thirties, with dark hair pulled back in a neat bun. She’s wearing scrubs and has a stethoscope draped around her neck.

Her smile is professional, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.

“Ms. Hayes? I’m Dr. Iris. How are you feeling?”

I blink at her, my brain still foggy. “I feel like I got hit by a car.”

She offers a small smile. “Well, that’s because you were in an accident. You’re lucky it wasn’t worse. You have severe bruising, a mild concussion, and your hip took a nasty hit. But nothing is broken.”

Lucky. Yeah, right. I’m the luckiest girl in the world. Divorced, homeless, and now in a hospital.

I try to sit up straighter, wincing as my ribs protest. “Can I leave?”

“You can’t leave yet,” Dr. Iris says, checking the monitor. “We need to keep you for observation to make sure you’re stable.”

“I don’t have insurance.” I feel the panic rising again. “I don’t have money for this. I can’t pay for a private room. I can’t afford—”

“That’s been handled,” the dark-haired man says. His voice is calm.

I turn my head toward him. I had almost forgotten he was there.

“What do you mean ‘handled’?”

“Your medical expenses,” he says simply, leaning back in the chair like he owns the place. “They are covered.”

“By who?”

He doesn’t answer immediately. He just looks at me with those unreadable, bottomless eyes.

“Why would you...” My voice trails off as the realization hits me. “Wait. You hit me with your car, didn’t you? And now you’re paying my bills to cover your ass?”

“My driver hit you,” he corrects smoothly. There is a sharp edge to his tone, a hint of arrogance. “And yes. The bills are taken care of. You don’t need to worry about a damn thing.”

This is insane.

I look back at Dr. Iris. “How long have I been out?”

“About twenty hours,” she says, checking her watch. “It’s four in the morning.”

Twenty hours.

I’ve lost almost a full day. That’s twenty hours of my life gone. Twenty hours where I could have been finding a job, finding a place to sleep, finding a way to survive.

Tears sting my eyes. They are hot and angry, spilling over before I can stop them. I hate this. I hate crying in front of strangers. I hate being weak.

I quickly wipe my face aggressively with the back of my hand, wincing as I brush a bruise on my cheek.

My mind tries to piece together the last things I remember. The rain. The cold. The headlights blinding me. Strong arms lifting me up off the wet pavement. A deep voice telling me to stay with him.

Him. He hasn't even told me his name when he knows mine

This stranger paid my bills.

Why? Guilt? Probably. Rich men love to throw money at problems until they go away. And right now, I’m just a problem in a hospital bed.

“Sienna,” Dr. Iris says, her voice softer now. It pulls my attention away from my thoughts. “There’s something else we need to discuss.”

Her tone has shifted to something serious

Oh God. What now?

Did I break something inside? Is there internal bleeding? Brain damage? Did the car hit me harder than I thought?

“What?” I ask, gripping the white sheets. “What is it?.”

“Can you excuse us, Mr Kincaid?” She says as she pulls up a chair, sitting so we’re eye level.

Mr Kincaid.

I recognise that name but I don't have the luxury of dwelling on it when Dr Iris is currently sitting in front of me.

Whatever it is can’t be good. Doctors only sit when they have bad news.

“When we ran your bloodwork,” she begins after the ‘Mr Kincaid’ leaves the room “we found something.”

My stomach drops. My heart feels like it’s going to explode.

“What kind of something?” I whisper. “Is it bad?”

She pauses. Studies my face like she’s trying to gauge how I’ll react.

Just say it. Just rip off the damn band-aid.

“Sienna,” she says gently. “You’re pregnant.”