Total pages in book: 143
Estimated words: 138844 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 694(@200wpm)___ 555(@250wpm)___ 463(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138844 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 694(@200wpm)___ 555(@250wpm)___ 463(@300wpm)
Usually, it was one or the other. Booze, painkillers, or gambling. Not this time.
I scrubbed my hands over my face as a heavy blanket of exhaustion fell over me.
I wouldn’t be able to cope if something happened to Lucian.
We’d all suffered enough, goddammit.
“Is he answering, Daddy?” Gael asked.
“Nothing so far, chiquito,” Santiago responded. “I’ll try again.”
Maybe he was trying to get in touch with KC. Or Master Dean.
“Chest pains—what does that even mean?” I blurted out. “Do you know if he actually had a heart attack, or…?”
Santiago shook his head grimly. “The ambulance hadn’t arrived yet when Gael and I left to pick you up.”
Just great.
I felt my bottom lip quiver, and my eyes welled up all over again.
“KC said he’d call when he knew where we were supposed to go,” Santiago added.
I instinctively dug out my phone to see if I had any messages, but there were none.
CHAPTER 1
Present day
KC Hayles
I was sure Lucian had given my name out of habit and because I was still listed as his emergency contact, but Cam should’ve been here in the ambulance in my stead.
On the other hand, I’d seen our boy’s expression before we’d driven off. Cam was too distraught. And I couldn’t blame him. He and I had been on Lucian’s case for weeks; we’d warned him, we’d badgered, we’d pleaded with him.
“KC.”
“I’m right here, baby.” I squeezed Lucian’s foot as two EMTs worked on him. His voice was thick with anxiety and drowsiness, and it rattled the fuck out of me.
Lucian was supposed to be frustratingly composed.
I kept an eye on the instruments, and I swallowed hard as his blood pressure was revealed. Jesus Christ, 195/120—way higher than when his doctor began telling him to slow down.
I wasn’t a fan of fearmongering, but sometimes it was necessary in order to knock sense into stubborn idiot workaholics.
It’d started slowly last fall. He’d gone in for a checkup, and the doctor had recommended monitoring his blood pressure and cutting down on stress, salt, and sugar.
That’d resulted in absolutely no improvements. The opposite, rather.
In Lucian’s quest to hand over the reins of many of his clients at work, he’d had to work overtime, as well as train the adviser filling his shoes. And they were big shoes to fill. Multimillionaires and billionaires were whiny fuckers who demanded constant attention and advice, and none of them wanted Lucian to leave.
The next doctor’s appointment had been more straightforward. You have high blood pressure, Mr. Leroux. You need to eliminate stress factors and make lifestyle changes.
Our stubborn asshole of a man had all but waved it off. There was an arrogance to workaholics who believed they could postpone a treatment. “I’ll slow down very soon—I just have to do this and that…”
I needed a doctor who said he’d fucking die if he didn’t get his shit together.
My phone buzzed in my pocket, and I pulled it out to see a message from Cam.
I have your braces. Any updates?
Thank fuck. Getting out of the ambulance was going to be difficult. Up was easier than down, so I’d climbed in fairly easily. But jumping out? My knees were going to cave in. I’d have to find something to grab on to.
I eyed Lucian again. One of the EMTs was checking his eyes with a flashlight and asking him a bunch of questions, but they had to realize he was in no shape to provide answers. He was in pain, he was all but hyperventilating, and he kept screwing his eyes shut, balling his hands into fists, and twisting on the stretcher. He was uncomfortable and unable to lie still.
I suppressed an impatient sigh and texted Cam back with what little I’d picked up.
Thank you, sweetheart. I’ll let you know where to go as soon as I know more. The EMTs are logging his symptoms and blood pressure. I don’t know if they’ll perform an EKG here or if they’ll wait till we get to the ER. He’s nauseated, has blurry vision, and shortness of breath.
That was bad enough—I didn’t pile on the list. I didn’t bring up the chest pain again or mention the evident confusion, the visible anxiety, and the dizziness.
Moments later, we rolled into the ambulance bay of the hospital in Tysons.
Stress and worry spiked as I scanned the doors of the vehicle, and everything was suddenly happening quickly. I sucked in a breath and just pushed myself into action. I grabbed on to a handle, bent down quickly so I could support my weight with a hand on the floor, and I jumped out clumsily but effectively before hospital staff assisted with getting Lucian out.
My heart pounded, and I cursed my own weakness—
“…needs a cane or a wheelchair,” Lucian slurred. “Fuckin’ get it for him!”
Christ. I ran a hand through my hair and registered the moment of confusion between the doctors and nurses surrounding the stretcher, and I had to swallow my pride and let them know I suffered from partial paralysis in both legs.