Page 86 of The Substitute Fiancée

“She was admitted to the emergency department at Pitié-Salpêtrière Hospital,” the operator finally announces.

My world collapses. Narrows to a single point.

“What? How—what happened?”

“According to what we know, she was shoved by the intruder and fell down the stairs. She lost consciousness. She began to regain consciousness in the ambulance.”

Each word hits like a hammer.

Shoved. Fell. Unconscious. And I wasn’t there.

“Is she… is she okay? Is she…?”

“I don’t have any more information, sir. You need to contact the hospital directly.”

“Which hospital did you say?”

“Pitié-Salpêtrière. Emergency department.”

“Thank you.”

I hang up and race down the stairs, nearly tripping several times. I jump into my car and take off at full speed.

Sam is in the ER. And I was in a meeting. In a damn meeting while she— while her life tipped.

I drive too fast, run a yellow light that turns red. Horns blare around me. I don’t care. I have to get to the hospital. I have to see her.

The drive feels like it takes hours, even though it’s only fifteen minutes. I park anywhere in the hospital lot and run toward the emergency entrance.

“My fiancée was admitted today,” I say to the receptionist, breathless. “Samantha Chevalier. She fell.”

The woman behind the desk checks her computer with a slowness that drives me crazy.

“Yes, I see her. She’s under observation on the second floor, room 214.”

I don’t even let her finish. I rush toward the elevators, frantically pressing the button. Too slow. I take the stairs, two steps at a time.

Second floor. I scan the room numbers. 210, 212, 214.

I stop in front of the door, my heart pounding. My hand trembles as I knock softly.

I step inside without waiting for an answer.

She’s there, lying in the bed by the window. Her face pale. An IV in her arm.

My heart shatters. Because she’s hurt. Because she’s alive.

She turns toward me when I enter the room.

She doesn’t smile when she sees me, and I know—I know—I really screwed up.

My voice breaks on her name.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know. If I had known, I never would have…”

My apologies sound pathetic even to my own ears. What can I say? What could possibly erase the fact that I wasn’t there when she needed me?

She looks at me for a long moment. Then she smiles—but it’s a sad, broken smile that hurts me more than shouting or accusations ever could.