Page 33 of The Darkest Knight

I feel like shit.

I’ve been a ruthless asshole to Cari—the one person who never fails me. I push away from my desk and head toward her workspace, ready to make things right. But when I get there, she's gone.

The bouquet of flowers lies abandoned on her desk.

Her computer is still on, documents open, notes scribbled in her precise handwriting scattered about. It looks like she stepped away for a moment, expecting to return.

I pull out my phone and call her. It rings straight to voicemail.

"Hey, it's me. Call me when you get this."

I linger by her desk, running a hand over the back of her chair. The emptiness gnaws at me.

I return to my office, trying to focus on anything else, but an hour slips by, and still no word from her.

I call again. Voicemail.

A cold dread seeps into my veins.

Something's wrong. By the time I come out of my office again, the light outside has turned dusky. Still no Cari.

I call her phone once more. Nothing.

And then it hits me.

Hard.

Like someone’s driven a knife straight through my ribs.

Something happened to her mom.

It’s the only reason she wouldn’t pick up. The only reason she’d drop everything, even this deal, and disappear without a word. The only reason she hasn’t come back to properly pack up for the day.

A cold dread settles deep in my stomach. I see her pale face this morning, the exhaustion in her eyes, the way she flinched when I snapped at her. And now her mom...

Fuck. I’ve messed up.

Regret tightens around my throat. I've been such an ass, too wrapped up in my own world to consider hers.

I grab my coat and sprint for the elevator. I don’t call my chauffeur. I don’t wait for anything. I barrel outside, into the sharp evening air, and hail a cab and rush straight to the hospital.

CARI

I burst through the hospital doors and race down the familiar corridors, my heart pounding so hard it hurts. Two doctors stand by Mom’s bed. Machines hum quietly, their steady rhythm a cruel contrast to the chaos inside me. Mom lies still, her face pale, her eyes closed.

“Is she—?” My voice cracks, and I can’t bring myself to finish the sentence. Aunt Scarlett looks up from her seat, her face streaked with tears.

Aunt Scarlett turns to me, her face streaked with tears. "She's still here," she sobs. Relief buckles my knees, and I collapse into her arms. We cry together, clinging to each other like we’re drowning.

When I can breathe again, I move to Mom’s side, reaching for her hand. It’s still warm. The tiniest flicker of hope sparks inside me.

“Mom?” I whisper, bending down to kiss her cheek. My tears drip onto her skin, but she doesn’t stir. “Mom, can you hear me? Please, open your eyes.”

The female doctor shifts uncomfortably, her expression pinched with sympathy. “Her immune system is too compromised,” she says quietly.

“But she’s still breathing,” I cry, panic clawing up my throat. “She’s still alive. She’s a fighter. She wouldn’t give up—shewouldn’t.” Because she knows I still need her.

The doctor rests a gentle hand on my shoulder. “We’ve given her antibiotics and fluids, but her body isn’t responding. Her immune system is too weak to fight the infection.”

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