Coma Couture and Other Horrors

If heaven were real, it would look exactly like my old bedroom at the Bahr mansion. Fresh linen sheets washed with eucalyptus-scented softener, perfectly chilled air conditioning, and five cats lounging around me like I was some kind of domestic goddess from ancient Egypt.

Lucifer curled up on my favorite pillow like he paid rent. Morticia sat like royalty on my vanity, plotting a coup. Chanel circled in front of the mirror, meowing softly. Nacho bounced after his own shadow like a maniac. And Butters… threw up in the corner of the Persian wool rug.

“Oh my God, Butters,” I groaned, grabbing tissues and wiping the mess. “Do you have any idea how much this rug costs? It’s more expensive than Damian’s first car. But sure. Go ahead. I just pay the bills.”

Lucifer gave me a slow, bored blink with one eye.

“I know, Handsome. I know. You don’t need me. But listen, if I die first, you’re coming to the grave with me. Let’s see who wins in the end.”

Before I could finish ranting to my fluffy gang of freeloaders, my bedroom door swung open without a knock. As usual. Like this wasn’t my room, but some communal space in a Havana hotel.

And there she was. Mama. Hair in a tight bun, blood-red lipstick, and an expression that could make dictators tremble.

“Get dressed. We’re going to the hospital,” she said.

I stared at her from the bed, one leg up, mascara still on, hair a mess, with Chanel licking my knee.

“Okay. But I’m gonna need more context than that. Why? Did I sell an organ and forget about it?”

She walked in, sat on the vanity chair, and started rubbing her thighs like she was counting down her last ounce of patience.

“They’ve moved Theo to a hospital in New York. The Rodriguez family invited us to visit. So get dressed. Wear something decent. And please, for the love of God, don’t wear eyeliner thicker than your unresolved trauma.”

I froze. No, I fossilized. Like actually turned to stone.

“Ma…” I sat up, horror spreading across my face. “You’re joking, right?”

She narrowed. “Of course not. I don’t joke about near-death situations.”

“That’s exactly why. Near death means not dead. So why are we visiting him?”

“Because it’s normal. It’s polite. It’s called being human.”

“Being human? He cheated on me, Mom. In a marriage I never asked for. A contract with no exit clause unless I wanted a soul-crushing heartbreak. Should I bring flowers too? Maybe wear a sash that says ‘supportive ex-wife’?”

She stared for a long beat. Then her eyes sharpened, switching from ‘mildly annoyed mother’ to ‘mother with slipper-throwing capabilities at supersonic speed.’

“You’re coming, Dianna. Because you’re not Satan’s spawn. And because our family doesn’t run from tragedy. You’ll be in the car in fifteen minutes. Or so help me God, I’ll drag you there in those Hello Kitty pajamas.”

I lifted my chin. “This isn’t Hello Kitty. It’s limited edition Calvin Klein.”

“I DON’T CARE.”

Lucifer jumped off the bed like he couldn’t take the energy in the room anymore. Morticia followed like a shadow.

Mama stood up, smoothed her dress, and gave me one last look. “And please. Don’t get your hopes up. If Theo survives, don’t pretend to be heartbroken. And if he dies…”

“I’ve got new black heels. Perfect for a funeral,” I cut in.

She closed her eyes for a second, took a deep breath. “You’re insufferable.”

“I’m your daughter.”

She left the room, and I collapsed onto the bed, staring at the ceiling in defeat. Chanel climbed onto my stomach, rested her chin on my chest, and let out a soft meow.

“I know, Chan. I know. This is going to suck.”

XXXXX

When was the last time I felt like a bride being dragged to the altar against her will?

Ah yes, my actual wedding day.

But today? I felt like the remake. Minus the white dress, plus the scent of antiseptic, and one pale pink dress I wore with the enthusiasm of someone being stabbed by an acupuncture needle.

“No complaining,” Mom said as we stepped out of the family car and walked toward the entrance of a private hospital that felt way too sterile for my taste. “That’s a good dress. That color makes you look less like a demon.”

“I like looking like a demon,” I muttered, adjusting the tiny strap on my shoulder.

Papa, who had been calmly walking beside me with one hand in his blazer pocket and the other looped around mine, chuckled. “You still look beautiful, sweetheart. Even if you look like you’re being held hostage.”

“Because I am being held hostage,” I whispered. “Emotionally.”

The waiting room on the seventh floor, where my ex-husband was being treated, smelled like fresh flowers and awkward tension. The walls were white, the lights too bright, and the sound of high heels echoed before the woman even turned the corner.

And of course.

Theo Rodriguez’s mother.

Claudia.

The Queen of Death Stares and Passive-Aggressive Comments Since the Beginning of Time.

With her hair perfectly pinned up, a pristine cream Chanel coat (not a single wrinkle), and a face untouched by time, thanks to both flawless genes and extremely expensive Botox, she approached us.

I tightened my grip on Papa’s hand and grinned. “Evil ex-mother-in-law incoming,” I muttered under my breath.

He cleared his throat to cover a laugh, but I knew he was enjoying this.

“Dianna,” Claudia greeted with a smile so thin it could slice paper. “I’m glad you could make it.”

I returned the smile like the elegant spawn of hell. “Of course. I'm thrilled to be here.”

Her eyes narrowed for a fraction of a second. I caught it.

Mama appeared beside me like a UN ambassador, full diplomatic mode engaged. “Claudia, we’re so sorry to hear the news. How’s Theo doing?”

Claudia turned to her and replied in a voice as formal as a press statement. “He’s stable. But... there are some things we’ll need to discuss later.”

Of course there are, I thought. Because life just isn’t miserable enough without a bonus plot twist courtesy of this woman.

I stayed quiet, still clutching Papa’s hand, letting Mama carry the small talk. Doctors, the VIP room, how Theo was always such a strong boy.

Then Claudia turned back to me. Her smile widened, and somehow became even less pleasant.

“You must be eager to see Theo. I’m sure… he’ll be very surprised to see you.”

“Oh, I’m sure too,” I replied sweetly. “Maybe his heart will stop. Again.”

Claudia didn’t laugh. But Papa gave my hand a gentle squeeze, a silent plea to tone it down just a little. No promises.

We walked slowly down the hallway toward Theo’s room, with Claudia leading the way like she was escorting royalty.

XXXXX

His hospital room was too quiet.

And too white.

Like a damn refrigerator showroom. Seriously, was this a room for coma patients or a Scandinavian interior design expo?

I stepped inside, letting the door whisper shut behind me.

And there he was. Lying in the hospital bed, blanket pulled up to his chest, IV in his arm, monitors beeping softly at his side. And his face?

I squinted.

That face. Oh my God.

“Incredible,” I muttered. “Still stupidly handsome. Even after getting hit by God and a truck at the same time.”

Theo Rodriguez.

That man had a face that made you want to curse in three languages. His jawline looked like it was sculpted with divine vengeance, and the scruff on his chin somehow made him look more mature. Sharper. A faint scar traced his right temple, and somehow it made him even more annoyingly attractive, not pitiful. His hair was a little longer than I remembered. Messy, but in the way that probably made half the nurses here forget they had degrees.

I sighed and stood next to the bed. “Well... at least you’re not dead. Disappointing, but fine.”

He didn’t answer. Obviously.

His eyes were closed, breathing steady, face peaceful. Like he was dreaming of something sweet, instead of the nightmare he should be having after cheating on his wife in a forced marriage straight from hell.

I crossed my arms. “Honestly, I thought you'd look worse. Like... pitiful. But no, apparently you used the accident as an excuse to get a facial upgrade. Does your plastic surgeon take walk-ins?”

I walked over to the little side table, flipping through cards from his endless list of socialite connections. Get well soon, praying for you, our strongest Theo, our shining light.

I almost gagged.

“You know,” I whispered, “I almost bought a black dress for your funeral. Tight fit, high slit, delicate lace at the shoulders. Something to make every guest whisper that I’m the hottest widow in Manhattan.”

I glanced toward the door. That should be enough. I could tell Claudia and Mom I’d done the visit. I didn’t even throw hot tea at him. That’s mature, right?

I turned to leave, fingers brushing the doorknob—

“Dianna...”

I froze.

That voice. Rough. Hoarse. Weak.

And painfully familiar.

I slowly turned around.

Theo’s eyes were open. Those dark eyes looked at me like I was the light at the end of a storm.

And damn it. Still gorgeous. Still full of... something.

Lies, probably.

“Sweetheart...” he murmured, smiling faintly. “You’re here...”

My brain stopped working.

So did my facial muscles.

What.

The.

Hell.

It took me a full five seconds to blink.

Then I laughed. Just one, short laugh. The kind you let out when you hear the dumbest joke of the century.

“Oh no. No no no. You did not just call me sweetheart like we just got back from our honeymoon.”

Theo tried to sit up, but he was too weak. His face though... he looked genuinely happy.

“Dianna... my wife... I missed you.”

My jaw dropped.

Okay. Either I’m dreaming, or this man forgot he signed our divorce papers three years ago while wearing a watch worth a Brooklyn apartment.

Forgot?

Wait.

Don’t say it...

Don’t you dare—

Oh, FUCK.