Chapter Thirty-Seven
Grace’s POV
I must have dozed off, because suddenly Maya was shaking my shoulder.
“Grace,” she whispered urgently. “Something’s happening.”
I blinked awake, confused. The room was dimmer than before, only a small wall light casting shadows. Hunter was on his feet, leaning over Helena. A nurse was checking machines, moving quickly.
“What’s going on?” I asked, rising.
Maya shook her head. “I don’t know. Her monitors started going crazy.”
The nurse pressed a button on the wall, and suddenly the room was flooded with activity. Dr. Patel appeared, barking orders. Someone pushed Hunter away from the bed.
“Sir, you need to step back.”
“What’s happening?” Hunter demanded. “What’s wrong with her?”
“Please, Mr. Sinclair, let us look after her wife.”
Maya grabbed Hunter’s arm, pulling him back. I stood frozen, watching the events unfold. Time stretched, seconds feeling like hours.
And then, too quickly, it was over.
Dr. Patel stepped away from the bed. The machines were silent.
“Time of death, 2:47 a.m.,” she said quietly.
Maya’s hand tightened on Hunter’s arm. Hunter made a sound like he’d been punched. I couldn’t breathe.
“I’m very sorry, Mr. Sinclair,” Dr. Patel said. “We did everything we could, but the brain hemorrhage was too severe.”
Hunter shook his head once, twice. Denial. Disbelief.
“No,” he said. “No. You’re wrong. She can’t be—check again. Do something else. Try—”
“Hunter,” Maya said gently, her hand on his arm.
He wrenched away from her, moving back to Helena’s bedside. He took her hand in his.
“Helena,” he said, his voice breaking. “Helena, please.”
I couldn’t watch. I turned away, pressing a fist to my mouth to hold back the scream building in my throat. My sister was dead. My beautiful sister was gone. And the last thing—the very last thing… anyone would have thought would happen.
A harsh sob tore from Hunter’s throat, the sound so raw… it hurt to hear.
Maya moved to him, wrapping her arms around his shaking shoulders. I should go to them. I should help. I should do something.
Instead, I slipped from the room like the coward I was, stumbling down the corridor until my legs gave out and I collapsed against the wall, sliding to the floor as grief and guilt tore me apart.
Hunter’s POV
They’d let me stay with her body. Gave me time to “say goodbye,” whatever the fuck that meant. How do you say goodbye to your wife? Yes, we had problems, but I didn’t… didn’t want her dead.
Maya had tried to stay, but I’d sent her away. Needed to be alone with Helena. With what remained of her.
She didn’t look like herself. That was the thing no one tells you about death. It’s not a peaceful sleep. It’s absence. Empty. The person you knew wasn’t there anymore, just the shell they left behind.
I touched her cheek. Still soft. Already cooling. If only I hadn’t been away on a business trip with Grace…
Grace.
A wave of nausea hit me so hard I had to grip the bed rail. Jesus Christ. Less than twenty-four hours ago, I’d been in a hotel room with Grace. I’d touched her, tasted her, crossed every line that existed between us.
While Helena was here, in New York, soon after getting into a car with her trainer. A car that would crash into a tree and kill her.
What kind of husband was I? What kind of fucking man?
“I’m sorry,” I said, the words inadequate, pathetic. “Helena, I’m so sorry.” The guilt was eating me alive.
The door opened softly behind me. I didn’t turn.
“Mr. Sinclair?” A nurse, her voice gentle. “I’m very sorry, but we need to... prepare Mrs. Sinclair now.”
Prepare. Another fucking euphemism. They needed to take her body away. Put her in a drawer somewhere cold and sterile.
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
“Would you like a moment with your family first? They’re waiting outside.”
Helena’s parents. Mom and Dad. Maya. And Grace.
Grace, who was now Margo and John’s only living daughter.
I nodded again, and the nurse withdrew. A minute later, the door opened again and Mom came in, her face pale and drawn. She’d been crying, her eyes red-rimmed and swollen.
“Hunter,” she said, moving to my side. “Oh, my sweet boy.”
She wrapped her arms around me, and for a moment I was a child again, safe in my mother’s embrace. But I didn’t deserve comfort. I didn’t deserve anything.
I pulled away. “They need to take her soon.”
Mom nodded, tears spilling down her cheeks. “Your father’s calling Margo and John now. They should be told before they arrive back in the morning.” She hesitated. “Maya’s with Grace. She’s... not doing well.”
Of course she wasn’t. She’d lost her sister.
“I should...” I gestured vaguely toward the door.
“Take your time,” Mom said. “Say what you need to say.”
But what was there to say? I’m sorry I was a shit husband? I’m sorry I didn’t love you the way I should? I’m sorry I spent your last days alive thinking about your sister?
I leaned down and pressed a kiss to Helena’s forehead.
“Goodbye,” I whispered. The word felt wrong, inadequate. Everything felt wrong.
I straightened, squared my shoulders, and turned away from my wife’s body. Mom took my arm as we walked out, her grip tight, like she was afraid I might collapse.
Maybe I would.
Dad was in the corridor, phone pressed to his ear, his face grim. I could hear Margo’s wails through the speaker even from several feet away. He looked up as we approached, his expression softening with sympathy.
“John, I have to go. Hunter’s here,” he said. “We’ll see you when you arrive. I’m so sorry.” He hung up and placed a hand on my shoulder. “Son, I’ve arranged for Helena to be transferred to Miller & Sons. They’ll handle everything with the utmost respect.”
Of course he had. Dad always handled things. Always knew what to do.
“Thank you,” I managed. I just couldn’t think of that now.
“Hunter, go home… you need rest,” Mom said.
Home. The thought was like acid in my gut. Home, where Helena’s things waited. Her clothes. Her perfume. Her side of the bed that would be forever empty.
“Where’s Grace?” I asked.
Mom and Dad exchanged a look.
“Maya took her to the chapel,” Mom said. “She was... quite upset.”
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. I should go to her. Comfort her. But how could I, when my hands were still stained with the betrayal of her sister?
“I’ll handle the paperwork,” Dad said. “You go with your mother. The car’s waiting downstairs.”
I let Mom lead me away, down the corridor toward the elevator. We passed the chapel, its door slightly ajar. I caught a glimpse of Grace inside, her head bowed, Maya’s arm around her shoulders. Maya looked up, her eyes meeting mine for a moment.
I looked away.
The ride home was a blur. Mom tried to talk—mindless comfort about how we’d get through this, how time would heal, how Helena was at peace now. I tuned her out, staring out the window.
The house was dark when we arrived. I stood in the foyer, suddenly lost. What now? What did you do when you came home after your wife had just died?
“I’ll make some tea,” Mom said, squeezing my arm before heading for the kitchen.
“No,” I said, my voice rough. “I need... I need to be alone… I’m sorry.”
She nodded, understanding in her eyes.
I watched as Mom headed for the kitchen, leaving me alone in the dark foyer. Upstairs, I knew, was our bedroom. Our bed. Helena’s things. I couldn’t face it. Not yet.
I moved to my study instead, closing the door behind me. The room was cool, untouched. I crossed to the bar cabinet and poured myself three fingers of scotch, downing it in one burning swallow. Then another. And another.
The alcohol hit my empty stomach like fire, but it didn’t help. Nothing could help.
My wife was dead. And the last thing I’d done was betray her with her sister.
A knock at the door. Soft, hesitant.
“Hunter?” Grace’s voice, thick with tears. “Can I come in?”
Every muscle in my body tensed. I couldn’t face her. Not now. Not like this.
“Hunter, please. I need to—”
“Go away, Grace.”
Silence. Then: “I want to make sure you’re okay. Talk.”
“No.” The word came out harsher than I intended. “We don’t. There’s nothing to say.”
Another silence, longer this time. I thought she’d left until her voice came again, barely audible through the door.
“I’m so sorry.”
Sorry. For Helena? For Chicago? For all of it?
“Go to bed, Grace,” I said, the words like ash in my mouth. “It’s late.”
I heard her soft footsteps retreating, and something in my chest twisted painfully. I should go after her. She was grieving, too. She’d lost her sister. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t look at her without seeing my own guilt reflected back at me.
I poured another drink and moved to the window, staring out into the dark morning. Somewhere out there, Helena’s body lay on a cold metal table. I needed answers about what had happened. Paulo was alive… He would have the answers I needed. How had the accident happened?
Why had she been with him? Why had she died?
The rage hit me suddenly… violently. I hurled my glass across the room, watching it shatter against the wall, amber liquid dripping down the paint.
I sank to my knees, a sound tearing from my throat that didn’t sound human. Grief or guilt or rage—I couldn’t tell anymore. Everything blurred together into a storm that threatened to pull me under.
My wife was dead. My life was in pieces. And there was no going back. No fixing this. No undoing what I’d done.
I’d failed her. I’d failed us both.
And now I had to live with it.