Chapter 4

Evangeline's POV

"Mrs. Hart?"

I blinked up at the nurse standing beside my bed. Her face was kind, but her eyes held something else. Pity.

"Your son," she said gently. "Theo. He's—"

"Where is he?" I pushed myself up. "I need to see him."

"He's in surgery right now." She placed a hand on my shoulder, steadying me. "The accident was quite serious. You were both very lucky that someone found you when they did."

Lucky. The word felt obscene.

"How long were we there?" My voice came out hoarse, broken.

"Several hours, from what we understand. A man driving through the area saw your car and called for help." Her expression grew more somber. "Because of the delay in treatment, and because of the nature of Theo's injury… the head trauma… his condition is critical."

The room tilted. "Critical?"

"The doctors are doing everything they can. But you should—"

"No." I swung my legs over the side of the bed, ignoring the IV line tugging at my arm. "Take me to him. Now."

The journey through the hospital corridors felt endless. Every second that passed was another second Theo was alone, hurt, fighting for his life without me there.

When we reached the surgical wing, the doors were just opening. A gurney emerged, a small figure beneath white sheets. So small. Too small.

"Theo!" I wept, my legs barely supporting me.

A doctor caught my arm before I could fall. "Please be careful."

"That's my son. That's my baby. Is he…" The words choked in my throat. "Is he alive?"

The doctor's eyes met mine. He pulled down his surgical mask, and recognition flickered through my panic.

Ethan. Jennifer's brother.

Tall and broad-shouldered, with dark hair that was just slightly tousled despite his otherwise immaculate appearance. I had heard he was a top neurospecialist, the kind who could pull a life back from the edge. 

"Evangeline." His voice was calm, professional, but I could see the concern beneath it. "Theo is alive. We managed to stabilize him, but—"

"But what?" My nails dug into his arm.

He guided me gently to a chair in the hallway. The gurney disappeared through another set of doors, taking Theo further away from me.

"The surgery went as well as could be expected given the circumstances," Ethan said carefully.

"We've relieved the pressure on his brain from the impact. But the delay in treatment, combined with the severity of the trauma..." He paused, choosing his words. "Evangeline, Theo is in a coma."

"A coma," I repeated numbly.

"His brain needs time to heal. And right now, we can't predict how long that will take." Ethan's hand found mine, warm and steady. "It could be days. It could be weeks. Or..."

"Or what?"

His silence was answer enough.

"No." I shook my head, pulling away from him. "No. He's going to wake up. He has to wake up. He's only five years old, he's just a little boy, he—"

My legs gave out. Ethan caught me, lowering me back into the chair as sobs tore through my chest.

"I'm so sorry," he murmured, his hand gentle on my back. "I know this isn't what you want to hear. But as his guardian, you need to be prepared for the possibility that he might not wake up. Not soon. Maybe not—"

"Don't." The word came out sharp, desperate. I murmured. "Don't say it."

He fell silent, just holding me as I fell apart in that sterile hospital hallway.

"What the hell is going on here?"

The voice cut through my grief like a blade.

I looked up to see Dashiell striding down the corridor, his face twisted with fury.

"What happened to my son?" He didn't even look at me, his eyes fixed on Ethan. "Why the hell is my son in there?!"

Ethan stood, still keeping himself between Dashiell and me. "Mr. Hart, I'm Dr. Taylor. I just performed surgery on your son."

"Surgery?" Dashiell's voice rose. "What kind of surgery? How bad is he?"

"Theo suffered severe head trauma in the car accident. We had to relieve pressure on his brain. He's stable now, but he's in a coma."

"A coma?" Dashiell's face went red. "How did this happen? How could you let this happen?"

He whirled on me, jabbing a finger in my direction.

"This is your fault! You're supposed to be watching him! You're supposed to be taking care of him!" His voice echoed off the walls. "But no, you're too busy doing God knows what, too distracted, too incompetent!"

I stared at him, saying nothing. But my palms were itching to slap him. Where did he get the audacity?

"Are you even listening to me?" Dashiell stepped closer, his face inches from mine. "Your son is in a coma because of you! Because you couldn't do the one job you had—"

"Mr. Hart." Ethan's voice was sharp. "That's enough."

"Don't tell me what's enough!" Dashiell turned on him. "Who the hell are you anyway? And why are you so concerned about my wife? I saw you holding her.  Do you have a relationship with her? She’s my wife!"

"Ex-wife," I said quietly.

Dashiell's head snapped back to me. "What?"

"We're divorced." I met his eyes, my voice flat. "I'm not your wife anymore. What I do and who I see is none of your business."

"That divorce was temporary," he sputtered. "You know that. It was just a formality so I could—"

"So you could marry Sabrina." I stood slowly, every muscle in my body screaming. "So you could give her the wedding you never gave me. So you could play happy family while I raised our son alone."

"That's not—"

"And now Theo is lying in that room, unconscious, maybe dying, and you're here blaming me." My voice didn't rise. Didn't crack. "You want to know whose fault this is, Dashiell? Look in the mirror."

His face went white, then red again. "How dare you—"

"I'm going to see my son now." I walked past him toward the doors. "Don't follow me."

"Evangeline!" His hand shot out to grab my arm.

Ethan stepped between us, his hand catching Dashiell's wrist. "She doesn’t want to talk to you."

"You're screwing him, aren't you?" Dashiell's voice was venomous. "That's what this is about. You're already whoring around while our son—"

I didn't turn around. Didn't respond. His words meant nothing anymore.

I walked through the doors to Theo's room, leaving Dashiell and his poison behind.

My son lay in the hospital bed, so small against the white sheets. Machines beeped around him, monitoring every breath, every heartbeat. His head was wrapped in bandages, tubes and wires connecting him to life.

I sank into the chair beside his bed and took his small hand in mine.

"I'm here, baby," I whispered. "Mama's here. And I'm not going anywhere."