Adrian’s POV
The corridor smells of antiseptic and dread.
I've been pacing the same stretch of linoleum for what feels like days. Hours, at least. The fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting everything in a sickly yellow glow that makes the walls look jaundiced, diseased.
Every few minutes, the double doors swing open and my heart seizes in my chest—but it's always a nurse rushing somewhere else, a doctor consulting a chart, someone else's emergency taking priority over mine.
Never news about Sophie.
I check my phone—two hours and seventeen minutes since they wheeled her through those doors. Two hours and seventeen minutes of not knowing if she's breathing, if she's stable, if the life inside her is still fighting to exist.
My mind spirals through worst-case scenarios, each one darker than the last. Internal bleeding, placental abruption, cardiac arrest from the stress.
I've read enough medical journals to know exactly how many things can go wrong with a high-risk pregnancy, and my brain insists on cataloging every single one.
The phone call I made feels like it happened in another lifetime. Martin Webb—an old contact from my father's world, now a criminal defense attorney with connections that run deeper than his client list suggests.
I called in a favor, told him to get Cleo and Ayden released immediately. He didn't ask any questions, and that's exactly why I keep his number.
The double doors at the end of the corridor burst open, and this time, it's not hospital staff.
Cleo storms through first, her designer dress wrinkled and her makeup smeared, looking like she's been through a war and emerged ready to wage another.
Ayden is half a step behind her, his jaw tight with residual anger, one hand hovering at the small of her back in a protective gesture.
"Adrian!" Cleo's voice echoes off the sterile walls. She closes the distance between us in seconds, her heels clicking a furious staccato against the floor. "What the hell happened after they took us? Where's Sophie? Is she…"
Her voice cracks on the question she can't finish. "Is she alive?"
I stop pacing, force myself to meet her eyes. "They're stabilizing her after she collapsed. I don't have any information beyond that."
"You don't have—" Cleo's hands ball into fists at her sides. "It's been hours, Adrian. Hours. How can you not know anything?!"
"Because they won't tell me anything." The words come out sharp. I drag a hand through my hair, feeling the disheveled mess it's become. "I've asked, demanded, threatened. They keep saying someone will update me soon, and soon never comes."
Ayden steps forward, positioning himself slightly between Cleo and me—not threatening, just present, solid. "The cops held us for processing even after your lawyer showed up. Took forever to sort out the paperwork."
His voice is steady, but I can see the tension coiled in his shoulders, the way his jaw keeps flexing like he's grinding his teeth to dust.
"They told us Lisette is being evaluated by psychiatric services. Apparently her behavior on the rooftop, combined with her history, has them leaning toward institutionalization rather than prosecution."
"Good. It’s something."
"Cassian's not so lucky." Cleo's voice has gone cold, hard. "They're charging him with complicity. The police said his involvement with Lisette's schemes makes him an accomplice. He'll stand trial."
I should feel something at that news. Satisfaction, perhaps, or vindication. Cassian betrayed Sophie—used her, manipulated her, fed information to the woman who tried to destroy her. He deserves whatever the legal system decides to give him.
But right now, I can't summon anything beyond the hollow ache in my chest where certainty used to live.
"Adrian." Cleo's hand touches my arm, and the gentleness of it startles me.
When I look at her, I see the tears she's refusing to shed, glittering in her eyes like broken glass.
"She's going to be okay. Sophie's the strongest person I know. She survived growing up as basically a second mother to five siblings, she survived that asshole Ethan. She survived…" Her voice wavers. "She survived you."
I don't know if that's meant as comfort or accusation. The three of us settle into an uneasy silence.
Cleo eventually sinks into one of the plastic chairs, her leg bouncing with nervous energy. Ayden stands beside her, one hand resting on her shoulder, his thumb tracing absent circles against her collarbone.
I resume my pacing because stillness feels like surrender, and I'm not ready to surrender anything.
My thoughts keep drifting back to the rooftop. To the way Sophie's face went white before she crumpled. To the terrifying limpness of her body in my arms, like all the fight had drained out of her in an instant.
She's been fighting for so long—fighting her family's expectations, fighting her own desires, fighting the scandal that swallowed her whole. And I've been one more battle she's had to wage.
The baby, our baby, a life I never planned for, never wanted, never thought I was capable of creating. I still don't know if I'm capable of being a father.
The word itself feels foreign in my mouth, like a language I never learned to speak. My own father taught me nothing about nurturing, about tenderness, about the kind of love that builds rather than destroys.
But that baby is Sophie's, that baby is part of her—her strength, her stubbornness, her infuriating ability to see good in people who don't deserve it.
I can't lose either of them.
The double doors swing open again, and this time, a doctor emerges.
He's older, gray-haired, exhaustion carved into the lines of his face like it's been there for decades. His eyes scan the corridor until they land on me—I must look as wrecked as I feel, because recognition flickers across his features immediately.
"Family of Sophie Hale?"
I'm moving before he finishes the question. "I'm the father of her child. How is she?"
The doctor's expression is carefully neutral—the kind of practiced blankness that medical professionals perfect when they don't want to give anything away.
"Miss Hale is stable. She's still unconscious, but her vitals have normalized. The stress from the incident triggered a severe physiological reaction—her blood pressure spiked dangerously high, which caused her to lose consciousness. We're monitoring her closely, running additional tests to ensure there are no underlying complications."
"The baby." My voice comes out rougher than I intend, scraped raw by hours of fear I refused to let myself feel. "Is the baby okay?"
The doctor hesitates.
It's barely a second—a flicker of something in his eyes, a slight tightening around his mouth—but I catch it. I've spent my entire adult life reading people, finding the cracks in their composure, exploiting the truths they try to hide.
This hesitation is not reassurance.
"Doctor." Cleo has risen from her chair, her voice sharp with the same fear clawing at my chest. "The baby. Just tell us."
He opens his mouth to respond, and suddenly I'm not sure I'm ready to hear the answer.