I've showered, changed into fresh clothes Belforte had delivered to the hotel—black slacks, a simple blouse, a cardigan against the hospital chill. Washed away the blood, both Dominic’s and mine. Fixed my makeup to hide the exhaustion.
Earlier, when I first arrived at the hospital, wild-eyed and demanding answers, a doctor had intercepted me in the emergency department.
"Are you family?" he'd asked, clipboard in hand, expression neutral but eyes kind.
I didn't hesitate. "I'm his girlfriend." The words came easily, naturally—a truth I'd been denying for too long.
The doctor—Dr. Laurent, according to his badge—nodded once, accepting my claim without question. "Mr. Foster sustained a significant impact. Approximately 67 Gs, according to the data from his car. To put that in perspective, that's more than most fighter pilots experience in extreme maneuvers."
My stomach had turned at the number. The human body isn't designed to withstand such forces.
"The good news," Dr. Laurent continued, "is that the safety systems worked as intended. His helmet and HANS device protected his neck and spine. The impact was primarily absorbed by the right side of the car, which is why his right hand sustained fractures."
"His hand," I echoed, thinking of William's hands on the steering wheel, on my skin, in my hair. "How bad?"
"Two fractures in the metacarpals—here and here." He indicated spots on his own hand. "We've stabilized them surgically with pins. With proper rehabilitation, he should regain full function, though the full recovery will take time."
"His head? The crash looked..." I couldn't finish.
"Concussion, yes. Significant but not severe enough to cause lasting damage, based on our initial assessments. He has a laceration above his right eyebrow that required stitches and another across his forehead where his helmet struck the halo. We've induced sedation to give his brain time to recover from the trauma, but we expect to bring him out of it within the next few hours."
My legs had nearly given out with relief. Not critical. Not permanent. Recoverable.
"When can I see him?" The question came out more desperate than I intended.
"He's being settled in his room now. You can go up shortly."
Now, standing before Room 312, I take a deep breath. Prepare myself. Open the door.
The room is dim, lit only by the glow of monitors, and a small lamp in the corner. The steady beep of the heart monitor greets me first—a mechanical confirmation that his heart continues to beat, that he's alive. William lies motionless on the bed, the white sheets pulled to his chest, his tanned skin and tattoos stark against the hospital linens.
My breath catches in my throat. Even prepared, the sight of him shakes me to my core.
A white bandage wraps around his forehead, partially obscuring his curls. Six neat stitches close the gash above his right eyebrow, the skin around it angry and swollen. Purple bruising spreads across his temple and down his cheek. His right hand rests on a pillow beside him, encased in a complex arrangement of metal pins and bandages—the product of surgery to repair his shattered bones.
But it's his stillness that terrifies me most. William is never still—always in motion, always animated, always full of life. This unnatural quiet seems wrong; a violation of who he is.
I cross the room silently and lower myself into the chair by his left side. For a long moment, I just watch his chest rise and fall, finding comfort in this simple, essential movement. Then, carefully, I slip my hand into his undamaged one.
His skin is warm. Alive, and I let out a sigh of relief. I run my thumb across his knuckles, these hands that control machines worth millions at speeds most people can't comprehend. These hands that hold me like I'm precious.
"I'm here, Will," I whisper, the words barely audible over the steady beeping of the monitors. "I'm here."
I press my lips together, fighting the tears that threaten. I won't cry. Not now. Not when he needs me to be strong.
"The race restarted," I tell him, though he can't hear me. "EJ finished P9. Points for the team." I lean closer, resting my forehead against his bicep. "Everyone's worried about you. The whole team."
His face remains peaceful, unresponsive. The sedatives keep him under, giving his brain the rest it needs. I understand this intellectually. Emotionally, I just want him to open his eyes, smirk at me, call me "queen" or "goddess" or any of the dozen nicknames he's given me over time.
"You scared me," I confess to his sleeping form. "Don't ever do that again, okay? I can't... Ican'tlose you."
The admission costs me, even knowing he can't hear it. I've spent so long guarding my heart, protecting myself from exactly this kind of vulnerability. Falling for William wasn't part of any plan. Neither is losing him.
Hours pass. Nurses come and go, checking vitals, adjusting medication. They offer me coffee, suggest I get some rest. I decline both. I won't leave him. Not now.
The night deepens outside the window. Monaco's glittering lights shine in the distance, the race and its aftermath now old news, the world moving on while we remain suspended in this quiet room.
At some point, I check my watch—no,hiswatch—the vintage Omega I have with me since Melbourne last year. Three in the morning. My body aches from the uncomfortable chair, from the tension, from the fight with Dominic that feels like it happened years ago instead of hours.
