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“What’s going on?” I repeated in a soft tone, backing away, my hands braced protectively in front of me. Something told me I wasn’t going to like what he had to say.
“It’s Trent,” he sighed, his voice cracking.
“Is he okay?” I asked, my breath catching as my heart clenched painfully behind my ribcage. Oh God, something bad had happened. I knew it. I could feel Trent slipping through my fingers like a fistful of sand.
“Get dressed and then we’ll talk,” he turned away from me, grabbing up some of the kids toys.
I rushed into the bedroom, dressing as quickly as I could. I’m pretty sure my socks didn’t even match. When I left the room, the apartment was empty. I rushed outside, my fingers fumbling as I locked the door.
Trace was waiting in the Land Rover, he tapped the horn, urging me to hurry.
I ran down the steps and into the empty passenger seat. Olivia wasn’t with him.
“Please, tell me what’s happened,” I implored as I fumbled with the seatbelt. “It’s bad, isn’t it?”
He nodded, the muscle in his jaw visibly tightening. “He confronted your step-dad and he shot Trent.”
“Oh, God.” I hadn’t expected Trace to be so blunt with what he said, but I should’ve known, that was Trace—no sugarcoating.
I doubled over, my stomach clenching painfully.
“I think I’m going to be sick,” I mumbled, sweat breaking out across my forehead as bile rose in my throat. I had expected something like Trent had been in a car wreck, not that he’d been shot.
“It’s not good,” Trace continued, his body taut with tension, “my mom just got the call, so of course she rang me, and I came to get you. He’s been in surgery for several hours,” he rubbed his stubbled jaw angrily.
“And they just now called you?” I gasped.
Trent, my Trent, he’d been alone this long, fighting for his life? That wasn’t right!
Trace nodded. “He didn’t have his phone on him, only his wallet, so it took them a while to track us down. Our numbers aren’t exactly listed publicly.”
“Is he going to make it through the surgery?” I forced the words out of my mouth, terrified of the answer he might give me.
“Honestly?” Trace asked, his eyes venturing to mine before returning to the road ahead. “They said it was a fifty/fifty chance. The bullet barely missed a vital artery in his heart, and he’s lost a lot of blood.” Trace’s breath turned shaky. “We’ll know more once we get there.”
In the back of the car, the kids were sniffling as they cried, but I couldn’t make myself shower them in words of comfort.
I was numb once more, drowning in an ocean of pain and solitude. I was going to lose him—I already had, but this was worse, because this was forever.
Everything was a blur as we arrived at the emergency entrance of the hospital. I forced myself to stay calm and follow Trace.
Inside, he asked the information desk about his brother and they directed us to the correct floor—the intensive care unit. This was so fucking bad.
My hands shook with panic. I couldn’t imagine a world in which Trenton Wentworth didn’t exist. Thoughts of him consumed me—his smile, his laugh, the first time he over spoke with me, every memory flitted through my mind in rapid succession.
We rushed through the wide white halls, our shoes squeaking on the tile floors.
Ivy and Tristan each held onto my hands, as I all but dragged them along.
We burst through the set of double doors and into the main hal
lway of intensive care.
“Trace,” his mom breathed in relief when she saw us. Her eyes were red and puffy from crying. She looked horrible, and that scared me. Had she gotten bad news? Was he gone? Were we too late?
I released the kids’ hands and dashed into the bathroom I spotted to my right.
The door slammed closed behind me as I fell to my knees and emptied the contents of my stomach. Tears stung my eyes, one trailing down my cheek and under my chin.
