“Of course I came.” His jaw clenched, his eyes wet and furious. “Who the hell else is gonna show up for you, huh?”
The sirens came next. Red and blue light flickering through the window. Hands lifting me, voices shouting, Ace’s face swimming in and out of focus.
As they wheeled me out, I heard him.
“Don’t you quit on me, Brit! You hear me?! Don’t you damn quit!”
---
I woke to the soft beep of a monitor.
The room was pale, the smell sharp with antiseptic. My wrist was bandaged, my throat raw.
And Ace was there.
Slumped in a chair, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. His hoodie wrinkled, dark hair sticking up in messy tufts.
I shifted slightly. He was up in an instant.
“Brit.” His voice was hoarse, barely a whisper. “Hey. Hey, look at me.”
My mouth trembled. “Why… are you here…?”
He exhaled, sinking onto the edge of the bed, running a hand through his hair. “Because you scared the absolute hell out of me.”
Tears leaked from the corners of my eyes. “I didn’t mean to— I just—”
“I know.” His voice softened. “You were hurting.”
I choked on a sob, curling toward him. Without a word, he leaned forward, wrapping his arms around me, holding me like I was something fragile, something breakable.
I buried my face against his chest, breathing in the faint scent of mint gum and leather and something uniquely Ace.
He didn’t say I love you. He didn’t have to.
He was just… there.
And for the first time in months, I let myself believe that maybe, just maybe, I wasn’t completely alone.
Chapter 17
Brittany
I stared at the pale walls of the hospital room, the scent of antiseptic sharp in my nose, my arms wrapped tightly around my knees as I perched on the edge of the bed. The thin gown scratched against my skin, and the IV tugged slightly at my wrist whenever I moved. Outside the window, the sky was bruised with approaching night, casting long shadows across the white floor.
I heard the click of heels before I saw her.
“Brittany.”
My mother’s voice was ice — sharp, clean, cold. I stiffened, pressing my face deeper into my knees, wishing, just for a moment, that I could disappear.
“Look at you,” she hissed. “What an embarrassment to the Ashford name.”
I swallowed hard, fingers clutching the thin fabric at my knees. My mother’s perfume flooded the room — roses and poison.
“You couldn’t even keep your modeling career. You had everything, Brittany. Looks, name, privilege. And what did you do with it? You threw it away. Useless. Worthless.”
The words landed like slaps. I squeezed my eyes shut, and for a heartbeat, I was six again — cowering under the staircase, a broken doll clutched in my arms while voices roared overhead.
