POV Bella
The silence stretches like a razor wire, cutting deeper with each second. My family stands frozen behind their protective masks, their eyes revealing everything their mouths refuse to say.
"I'll get out of this bed," I threaten, my voice cracking as I struggle to sit up. "I'll risk infection, I'll tear these stitches open—whatever it takes to get answers."
"Bella, please—"
"Tell me!" The words explode from my chest, setting off alarms on every machine connected to my body.
Zane's composure finally shatters. "The race, Bella. There was an accident."
The monitors scream louder as my new heart pounds against my ribs like a caged animal.
"Ajax crashed." His voice breaks completely. "I'm so sorry."
The words ricochet through my skull without meaning. Ajax doesn't crash—he's too skilled, too careful despite his reckless reputation. He promised he'd come back to me. He always keeps his promises.
"No." The word comes out strangled. "No, that's impossible. He texted me after every race. He would have—"
"He died on impact," my father says with brutal gentleness. "There was nothing anyone could do."
The room tilts sideways. Someone shouts for medication as the machines around me erupt in urgent warnings. A needle slides into my IV port, pulling me into merciful darkness where Ajax is still alive, still waiting to see my new heart, still loving me with every breath he'll never take again.
* * *
The sedatives wear off, but the nightmare remains.
Ajax is gone. The truth sits in my chest like molten lead, heavier than my new heart, making each breath feel like a betrayal. I'm alive with someone else's heart while his has stopped forever.
"I want to see him," I say the moment my eyes open. "Take me to the hospital. The morgue. Wherever—"
"Bella, you can't," my mother says firmly. "Your immune system is compromised. Any exposure could kill you."
"The funeral is tomorrow," Zane says quietly. "You won't be strong enough."
"Then you go," I demand, gripping his hand with desperate strength. "You and Camila. Go for me. I can't let him—" My voice cracks. "I can't let him think I didn't care enough to be there."
Zane doesn’t argue; he just squeezes my hand until the tremor eases. When I try to sit up, the monitors shriek and the nurses are suddenly everywhere, gentle but immovable. By the time dawn thins the blinds, everybody has gone in my place, and I’m anchored to the bed by tubes.
I missed his funeral, trapped in this sterile prison while they put him in the ground. Maybe it's better—my last memory of him remains sunlight on his face, his smile, his promise to always come back to me.
"Tell me everything," I demand of Zane and Camila when they arrive with red-rimmed eyes. "I need to know."
They shift uncomfortably, but something in my expression makes them comply.
"Jake couldn't stop crying," Camila says, her voice barely above a whisper. "He kept saying it should have been him on that bike."
"Vincent Spencer broke down completely," Zane adds. "Vincent Jr. grabbed Jake by the collar, screaming that it was his fault for not stopping the race. Security had to pull them apart."
"His mother collapsed," Camila continues. "They had to carry her to the car. I've never seen anything like it."
The image of Ajax's family destroyed by grief cuts through me like shattered glass. These people who barely tolerated their youngest son, who made him feel like a disappointment—they're devastated by his loss.
"The media was everywhere," Zane says grimly. "Spencer security could barely contain them. Everyone wanted photos of the bad boy's final ride."
"I sent flowers," I whisper, remembering the fevered instructions I'd given the florist from my hospital bed. "White roses and forget-me-nots. Did they reach the funeral?"
"They were right by the coffin," Camila confirms gently. "With your card. His parents asked who sent them."
I close my eyes, picturing flowers I'll never see decorating a coffin I couldn't witness. "What did you tell them?"
"The truth. That you loved him."
* * *
Weeks blur together in a haze of physical therapy and emotional numbness. My new heart grows stronger while my soul withers. Nurses teach me exercises to improve circulation while I practice walking hospital corridors, half-expecting Ajax to appear around every corner with some inappropriate joke about hospital gowns.
"Your recovery rate is remarkable," Dr. Martinez tells me during a follow-up appointment. "The heart integration is textbook perfect. Your body accepted the transplant like it was made for you."
If only he knew how wrong it feels to be healed when the person who taught me to live is gone.
"I need to see his grave," I tell Zane during one of his daily visits. "And his family. He would want me to—"
The words stick in my throat, but Zane nods understanding.
"When you're strong enough. When the doctors clear you for outside exposure."
I take my anti-rejection medications religiously, hearing Ajax's voice in every pill I swallow. Take care of yourself, starlight. I need you to be healthy. But healthy for what? A lifetime without him stretches ahead like an endless desert.
The irony tastes bitter—I'm finally strong enough to live just as life loses all meaning. The universe's cruelest joke, wrapping salvation in the package of ultimate loss.
Physical therapists marvel at my progress, how quickly I'm regaining strength. What they don't understand is that survival requires momentum, and momentum requires purpose. Right now, my only purpose is honoring his memory by living the life he died believing I deserved.
I touch the surgical scar constantly, wondering about my anonymous donor. Someone young and healthy, the doctors said. Someone whose family chose to give life through their loss.
"Do you ever think about them?" I ask Camila during one of her visits. "The donor's family?"
"Every day," she admits. "They saved you when we thought we'd lose you too."
When we thought we'd lose me too. Because losing Ajax feels like dying anyway, like walking around with a heart that beats for someone who can't hear it anymore.
The scar tissue itches as it heals, a constant reminder of the miracle I never wanted if it meant living without him. I wonder if my donor knew their heart would beat for someone who'd trade it back in an instant to see Ajax's smile one more time.
"I'm ready," I tell Dr. Martinez during my next appointment. "To leave the hospital. To face the world."
He studies my charts, my test results, the steady rhythm on the monitor. "Your numbers look excellent. But are you emotionally prepared for—"
"I'll never be emotionally prepared," I interrupt. "But I can't hide in here forever. Ajax wouldn't want me to hide."
The mention of his name sends fresh pain through my chest, but I stand straight, letting my new heart carry me forward into a world that no longer contains the person who made it worth saving.