POV Ajax
"Three seconds!" Hunter Reid slammed cash into my hand before the first class. "You destroyed everyone. What the hell were you on last night?"
"Adrenaline." The lie rolled smooth while memories of Bella burned behind my eyes—her skin under my hands, her breath against my neck, the way she'd said my name like a prayer.
"Whatever it was, bottle it." He counted out another hundred. "The next race is on Friday. Same energy, same payout."
The congratulations followed me through campus. High-fives in hallways, whispered odds for Friday's race, even a nod from Professor Williams who'd definitely placed money on me.
But Bella's desk sat empty in economics. Her corner of the library remained abandoned. Three calls straight to voicemail.
"Where is she?" I cornered Camila outside the chemistry building.
Her face went pale. "Ajax—"
"Don't." I grabbed her arm. "Just tell me where Bella is."
"The hospital." The words hit like a punch. "She collapsed last night. High fever, complications from a cold. Her immune system—"
I was already running. The Ducati roared to life, tires screaming as I tore through campus. Red lights became suggestions. Speed limits became jokes. The pristine glass towers of St. Matthew's Medical Center materialized through my panic.
"Bella Sinclair." I slammed my palms on the reception desk. "What room?"
"Are you family?" The nurse's expression remained professionally blank.
"I'm her boyfriend." The lie came desperate. "Please, I need to—"
"I'm sorry, only approved visitors—"
"My family donated for the Spencer Wing!" The words exploded out. "Three million dollars. My name is literally on the building."
"Sir, I understand, but—"
"Is she dying?" My voice cracked. "Just tell me if she's dying."
The nurse's expression softened. "She's stable. Fighting a fever, but stable. Room 314, but she's sleeping and can't—"
The elevator doors closed on her protests. Third floor. Cardiac unit. The hallway stretched endless, antiseptic white burning my eyes.
Room 314's door stood partially open. I glimpsed machines, tubes, a small figure drowning in white sheets—
"No." Zane emerged, pulling the door shut behind him. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, his clothes wrinkled from sleeping in chairs. "Absolutely not."
"I just need to see—"
"She needs rest." He blocked my path, but his usual fire seemed dimmed. "Not whatever disaster you bring. Do you know what triggered this? Stress. Exhaustion. Running around in the cold without proper clothing."
The jacket. Guilt slammed through me.
"Is she—will she be okay?"
Zane's shoulders sagged. He suddenly looked younger than nineteen, just a kid carrying weight that would crush most people.
"The fever's breaking. But this is reality with her condition. Her heart can't handle what normal people survive without thinking."
"Zane—"
I reached out instinctively.
"Don't." But the word lacked venom. He pressed his palms against his eyes. "Just... don't."
"When's the last time you ate?"
The question surprised us both. Zane lowered his hands, staring at me with confusion.
"What?"
"Food. When did you last eat actual food?"
"I don't know. Yesterday? Maybe?" He swayed slightly. "Doesn't matter."
"It does." I caught his elbow as he stumbled. "Come on. Hospital cafeteria. You're no good to her if you collapse."
"I can't leave—"
"She's sleeping. The nurses are monitoring everything." I steered him toward the elevator. "Twenty minutes. Food, coffee, then you can go back to standing guard."
He resisted for three steps, then exhaustion won. We rode the elevator in silence, Zane listing against the wall.
The cafeteria was mostly empty. I loaded a tray—sandwich, soup, coffee black enough to wake the dead. Zane stared at it like he'd forgotten what food was.
"Eat."
"I'm not hungry."
"Wasn't a question." I pushed the soup closer. "Bella needs you to be functional, not passed out from low blood sugar."
He took a mechanical bite, then another. Some color returned to his face.
"Why do you care?" The question came quiet, genuinely curious. "After everything between you two—the years of games, the cruelty—why now?"
"Because she matters." The truth scraped raw. "More than the bullshit, more than the past."
Zane studied me over his coffee.
"It's complicated."
"No, it's not." His laugh held exhaustion but also understanding. "You love her. She's dying. Nothing complicated about that tragedy."
"The transplant—"
"Would save her life." The hope drained from his voice. "But finding a compatible donor? The genetic markers have to align perfectly. We're talking astronomical odds. Maybe one in ten million. She has been on the list for three years. Nothing."
"There has to be something—"
"There isn't." He pushed away the half-eaten sandwich. "I'm going to medical school to save her, but by the time I graduate... She won't be here."
The words hung between us, terrible in their certainty.
"Zane—"
"You still can't see her." His tone grew firm again. "She's too fragile right now. Your presence would send her heart rate through the roof, and that's the last thing she needs."
"I know." The admission hurt.
We walked back to the elevator together. At the third floor, Zane paused.
"Thank you," he said quietly. "For making sure I ate. For... caring."
"Take care of her."
"Always have. Always will."
The corridor emptied, leaving me alone with the antiseptic smell and the knowledge that behind door 314, Bella fought for every breath while I stood useless in the hallway.
But Zane was right. My presence would only hurt her now.
So I left, finding myself at the hospital directory, searching for another way to help. A way that didn't require her to know.
A way that might actually save her.
Transplant Coordinator - First Floor, East Wing.
The office smelled like hope and desperation. Photos of smiling survivors covered one wall, statistics and wait lists dominating the other.
“I need to check compatibility for a specific recipient,” I tell the woman behind the desk. “Heart transplant compatibility. Full genetic screening.” Her eyebrow climbs. I give her the details I shouldn’t know but can’t un-know—Bella’s name, the numbers I memorized off her chart.
Forms appear. I tell myself I’m just curious. That it doesn’t mean anything.
My hands shake anyway. Ink scratches my name again and again, and the weight of what I’m offering—what I might one day give her—settles into my bones like prophecy.