Chapter Thirty-Six
Grace’s POV
Hunter had barely spoken a word since the phone call. He’d gone white, then moved like a man possessed—barking instructions at the driver. He had shut himself inside a shell.
Now he strode ahead of me, leaving me half-jogging to keep up.
“Hunter,” I called. “Hunter, wait—”
He didn’t slow down. Maybe he couldn’t hear me over the thoughts that had to be circling in his head. Or maybe he was choosing not to hear me.
The Emergency Department doors whooshed open. Hunter zeroed in on the reception desk and made a beeline.
“Helena Sinclair,” he said, his voice rough. “Car accident. They called me—I’m her husband.”
The receptionist’s eyes widened slightly in recognition. The Sinclairs were well known in New York. “Let me check, sir.”
While she tapped on her keyboard, I caught up, standing behind Hunter. My heart hammered against my ribs. My sister. My sister was hurt. And here I was about to see her after almost sleeping with her husband.
Jesus Christ. What kind of person was I? I was thinking of myself while my sister was hurt… We still didn’t know how badly. I prayed that she wasn’t seriously injured. Just a scrape. Please God.
“Mr. Sinclair?”
We both turned. A doctor, hair pulled back in a severe bun, clipboard in hand, exhaustion etched into the lines around her eyes.
“I’m Dr. Patel. Please, come with me.”
Hunter moved like an automaton, following her through a set of double doors. I hesitated, unsure if I should follow. But Dr. Patel glanced back.
“Family only,” she said.
“She’s her sister,” Hunter said flatly.
The doctor nodded, and I fell in line behind them. Guilt was a living thing clawing at my throat.
“Your wife was in a serious collision,” Dr. Patel explained as we walked. “She was the passenger. The driver appears to have lost control on the curve of Riverside Drive. They hit a tree at high speed.”
“Passenger?” Hunter’s voice sounded hollow. “Who was driving?”
Dr. Patel glanced at her chart. “A man named Paulo Ricci. He’s in surgery now.”
Hunter stopped dead in the hallway. “Paulo? Her trainer?”
Why was Helena in a car with her personal trainer?
Dr. Patel nodded. “That’s what he told paramedics before he lost consciousness.”
“How…” Hunter’s voice cracked. He cleared his throat. “How bad is it?” Moving again to follow the doctor.
Dr. Patel stopped outside a room with a closed door. “Mrs. Sinclair sustained significant head trauma. She’s currently in a coma. We’ve placed her on a ventilator to assist with breathing, and we’re monitoring intracranial pressure.”
“But she’ll wake up.” It wasn’t a question. Hunter wouldn’t allow it to be a question.
Dr. Patel’s expression softened. “Mr. Sinclair, your wife’s injuries are extremely severe. We’re doing everything we can, but you should prepare yourself for the possibility—”
“No.” Hunter’s voice was steel. “I want to see her.”
The doctor nodded and pushed open the door.
The sight hit me like a physical blow. I took a step back… Helena—my golden, perfect, larger-than-life sister—looked small and broken in the hospital bed. Tubes and wires sprouted from her body like some grotesque garden. Her face was swollen, bruised beyond recognition. The steady beep-beep-beep of machines was the only sound in the room.
Hunter made a sound low in his throat. Not quite a moan, not quite a growl. He moved to her bedside in three long strides, taking her hand gently in his. His back was to me, shoulders rigid with tension.
“I’ll leave you with her,” Dr. Patel said quietly. “The nurse will be in to check her vitals soon. If you have any questions... I’ll be back soon with some test results.”
I nodded, unable to speak. When the door closed behind her, the silence felt suffocating.
“I don’t understand,” Hunter said finally, his voice hollow. “Why was she with Paulo? Where were they going?”
I had no answers. Or rather, I had suspicions I couldn’t voice—not now, not to Hunter, not when Helena lay broken between us. Was Paulo the man I had seen her with outside the hotel that day?
“Should I call…” I asked. “Your parents?” I also needed to know if our parents had been told. I needed something to do. And I needed to get away from Hunter.
Hunter nodded without turning. “They should know.”
I stepped outside to make the calls, grateful for the momentary escape. My hands shook as I pulled out my phone. Each conversation was a blur of shock and questions I couldn’t answer. Margo’s voice cracked when I told her. Hunter’s mother, Iris, went completely silent for so long I thought we’d been disconnected.
By the time I returned to the room, Hunter had pulled a chair to Helena’s bedside. He sat rigid, still holding her hand, his eyes never leaving her face.
“They’re on their way,” I said.
He didn’t respond.
I hovered awkwardly by the door, feeling like an intruder. Even though Helena was my sister. Part of me wanted to go to him, to offer comfort. A larger part knew I had no right. Not after Chicago. Not after betraying my sister with her husband. This—all of this—felt like punishment.
“You should sit down,” Hunter said finally, his voice flat.
I perched on the edge of a vinyl chair in the corner, as far from them as the small room would allow. We sat in silence, the beeping machines the only conversation.
Thirty minutes later, the door burst open. Margo rushed in, followed by Dad. Her eyes were red-rimmed, mascara smudged down her cheeks. I got up to vacate the chair for her. Dad picked it up, moving it to Helena’s hospital bed on the opposite side from Hunter for when Margo was ready to sit down.
“Oh my God,” she gasped, seeing Helena. “Oh my God, my baby.”
John, steady as always, placed a hand on her shoulder. “What did the doctors say?” he asked Hunter.
Hunter repeated Dr. Patel’s words in a flat tone. Coma. Ventilator. Intracranial pressure. Prognosis uncertain.
Margo dissolved into sobs, collapsing into the chair I vacated for her. Dad stood behind her, one hand still on her shoulder, his own eyes wet.
“What happened?” Dad asked. “The accident—who was—?”
“Passenger,” Hunter said, the word clipped. “Her trainer Paulo was driving. I don’t—I don’t understand why she was with him.”
Margo’s head snapped up. “Paulo? Why was she with Paulo?” Her eyes slid to me, narrowing slightly. “Did you know about this?”
I shook my head, recoiling from the accusation in her tone. “No. I haven’t met her trainer.” How was this anything to do with me? Helena had always been her own person. I had even been out of the state at the time.
Margo made a dismissive sound, turning back to Helena. “My poor girl. My beautiful girl.”
The door opened again. Chris and Iris Sinclair entered, followed closely by Maya. Hunter’s father immediately took charge, asking for the doctor—for an update.
Iris went straight to Hunter, placing a hand on his back. Maya’s eyes found mine across the room, and I saw something there that wasn’t grief. Not exactly.
She came to stand beside me as everyone else crowded around the bed.
The doctor came in to give everyone an update on tests, but she told them the next forty-eight hours were the most crucial before leaving again.
Margo started sobbing. Iris tried to comfort both her son and Margo.
“You look like shit,” Maya whispered.
“Thanks.”
“No, I mean it. You look... lost.”
I shook my head. “Not now, Maya.”
She studied my face, then nodded once. “Later, then.” She squeezed my arm gently. Unlike Margo, there was real warmth in her touch. Who was I kidding? My mother hadn’t even come to see if I was okay.
The next few hours passed in a blur. Doctors came and went. Chris paced and Iris prayed quietly in the corner, occasionally coming over to check on me with gentle touches and kind words.
Margo cried until she was empty, then sat in hollow-eyed silence, never once looking in my direction. John brought coffee no one drank. Maya alternated between trying to comfort Hunter and shooting me worried glances.
And Hunter didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t let go of Helena’s hand.
I felt like a ghost, hovering at the edges. The outsider. The interloper. The sister who’d betrayed Helena in the worst possible way.
Around midnight, Dr. Patel returned with an update that wasn’t an update at all. No change. Continuing to monitor. Next few hours are critical.
One by one, exhaustion claimed the others. Margo and John left, Margo kissing Helena’s forehead and whispering something I couldn’t hear. She brushed past me without a glance. Chris and Iris reluctantly agreed to go home after Maya promised to call if anything changed. Iris hugged me before she left, murmuring comfort I didn’t deserve. Maya herself refused to leave, curling up in one of the vinyl chairs with a blanket a nurse had brought.
That left Hunter, Maya, and me. And Helena, silent and still in the center of it all.
“You should go home,” Hunter said suddenly, his voice startling in the quiet room. “Both of you.”
“Not happening,” Maya replied without opening her eyes.
“Grace?” He looked at me for the first time in hours. His eyes were bloodshot, face haggard.
“I’ll stay,” I said softly.
He nodded once, then returned his attention to Helena.
I sat in my corner chair, watching them. Husband and wife. The guilt was a physical presence now, sitting on my chest, making it hard to breathe. If Helena died—God, if she died—the last thing I’d done was betray her. How would I live with that?
How would Hunter?