No matter how I tried to smother it, a sharp, relentless pain kept surfacing, just as fierce as when I first fell helplessly in love with him.
Tangled and numb, I rushed back to the hospital—and still I was too late. They were already wheeling my brother into surgery.
I sat on a bench in a daze, adrenaline giving way to exhaustion.
Silently, Tristan sat beside me and handed me a cup of warm milk. "Drink a little. You need to keep your strength."
I took it without answering—not because my heart softened, but because I needed energy to wait for my brother to come through.
We sat in cold silence until the surgical light dimmed and a doctor stepped out. His face was grave. "We've stabilized him for now, but his condition is critical. He's extremely weak... he may not wake up. The family should prepare for the worst."
My heart sank to the floor.
Just then, a doctor who had been looking down sprinted forward. I caught the familiar features, and he looked shockingly like Hillary.
I lunged, grabbed him, and shouted, "Stop!"
Ignoring his struggle, I ripped the mask from his face. It was Hector—her brother.