Page 90 of Burned By the Broken Doctor

I don't need to finish the sentence. My dad sighs, a deep, weary sound that speaks volumes. He understands the burden of unspoken expectations, the suffocating weight of societal pressure.

“We'll get to the bottom of this,” he says, his voice firm but laced with a hint of uncertainty. “But for now, you two need some rest.”

He glances at Damon, a knowing smile playing on his lips. “You've got a bride waiting for you, son. Go be with her.”

Damon and I exchange a look, both of us exhausted but relieved. “Let’s go,” he says, his voice gentle.

We leave the hospital together, leaning on each other for support. The night air feels cool against my skin, a stark contrast to the heat of the day’s events. “She’s going to be okay,” Damon says, his voice filled with conviction.

I nod, feeling a sense of calm wash over me for the first time all day. “Yeah, she is.”

We walk in silence for a while, the tension easing with each step. “You really love her, don’t you?” Damon asks eventually, his tone light but sincere.

I look up at the stars, feeling a weight lift off my shoulders. “Yeah, I really do.”

Damon smiles, clapping me on the back. “Then don’t let her go. Fight for her, Liam.”

I nod, knowing he’s right. “I’ll get back inside. You go see your wife.”

Damon hesitates, his gaze flitting between me and the north—in the direction of the reception. “Are you sure you'll be okay here, Liam?”

“Go,” I rasp, surprised by the strength that manages to leave my throat. “June needs you. I'll be here when Emma wakes up.”

Damon nods once, his expression a mixture of concern and relief. He pats me on the shoulder, a silent promise of support, before turning and heading out of the waiting area.

With his departure, the silence solidifies, pressing in on me like a physical force. I lean my head back against the chair, letting out a shaky breath that escapes me in a shudder. My mind replays the scene in the ambulance, the panic, the fear, the desperate confession that hung in the air.

A pang of guilt stabs at me. I must have added to her stress, in my desperation, I've pushed her further away just when she needed a shoulder to lean on and piled more pressure on her.

But then, a flicker of hope ignites within me. My dad's words—“she's stable”—echo in my mind, a lifeline in the stormy sea of emotions. The fact that she is stable fills me with a sense of gratitude so profound it brings tears to my eyes.

I walk back into the waiting room and slump on one of the metal chairs. I feel a renewed sense of purpose. Emma is my world, and I’ll do whatever it takes to make sure she knows that tomorrow.

No more doubts, no more fears. Just love, in every single way.

30

EMMA

The sterile white walls swim into focus, the harsh fluorescent light making my eyelids heavy. A dull ache throbs behind my eyes, and the scratchy fabric of the hospital gown does nothing to soothe the chills that rack my body. Memories flood back—the crowded wedding reception, the wave of dizziness, and then…nothing. I must have fainted.

The door creaks open, and a tall figure in blue scrubs strides into the room. A wave of anxiety washes over me, but as the figure approaches, recognition dawns.

“Dr. Miller?” I croak, my voice hoarse and unfamiliar.

He stops at the foot of the bed, a gentle smile playing on his lips. “Emma. Good to see you awake. How are you feeling?”

“A bit…out of it,” I admit, wincing as I try to sit up, the movement sending a jolt of pain through my head.

Dr. Miller moves forward, placing a hand on my shoulder to help me sit. “Easy there,” he cautions. “Let's have a look.”

The next few minutes are a blur of routine questions—when did I last eat something solid, have I been feeling overly stressed lately, any unusual pain or changes with my body. I answer to the best of my ability, my mind still fuzzy and disoriented.

Finally, he finishes taking my vitals, his brow furrowed in thought. “Alright, Emma,” he begins, his voice serious. “We ran a few tests while you were unconscious, and I think I have a good idea of what caused your fainting.”

My heart hammers against my ribs, a sudden surge of panic clawing at my throat. “What is it?” I whisper, barely daring to breathe.

Dr. Miller reaches into his pocket and pulls out a piece of paper, a heavy silence hanging in the air as he unfolds it. “Emma,” he says softly, his gaze fixed on the document, “it appears you were experiencing a great deal of stress, coupled with… Well, let's just say your body wasn't getting the fuel it needed.”

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