Page 17 of Knot Like Other Girls

The hospital room smells like disinfectant and desperation. I've been here for over twenty-four hours now, and the harsh fluorescent lights are starting to make my eyes throb.

Or maybe that's just the migraine brewing from listening to Braxley's non-stop whining.

"I'm telling you, there's something seriously wrong with me!" Braxley insists for what feels like the millionth time. He's propped up in the hospital bed, looking perfectly healthy aside from the tiny stitched cut on his eyebrow. "I demand another CT scan!"

I resist the urge to tell him that yes, there is indeed something seriously wrong with him, but it has nothing to do with his imaginary injuries. Instead, I force a placating smile. "Braxley, the doctors have run every test imaginable. You're fine."

"Fine?" He screeches, his voice hitting a pitch that makes me wince. "Does this look fine to you?" He gestures wildly at his face, nearly knocking over the vase of obscenely expensive flowers his mother brought in earlier.

I grab the vase to steady it and stare at him, trying to see what he sees. His skin is as flawless as ever, thanks to whatever unholy concoction of serums and creams he slathers on daily. The cut on his eyebrow is likely going to heal without leaving a mark.

He looks exactly like he always does.

Annoyingly perfect.

"You look... like yourself," I say carefully, knowing it's not the answer he wants.

Braxley's lower lip trembles. For a moment, I think he might actually cry. Instead, he reaches for his phone, probably to check his reflection in the selfie cam for the thousandth time today.

"My followers will notice," he mutters, zooming in on his eyebrow with a shaking hand. "They notice everything. What if this affects my engagement rates? What if I lose sponsors?"

I close my eyes, counting to ten in my head. When I open them again, Braxley is still staring at his phone, his expression one of pure horror. It would be almost comical if it wasn't so pathetic.

"Braxley," I start, trying to keep my voice gentle. "Maybe we should focus on what happened. You were shot at. Shouldn't we be more concerned about who did it and why?"

He waves a dismissive hand, not even bothering to look up from his phone. "Oh, that. Daddy's taking care of it. Probably just some crazed fan or jealous nobody. It doesn't matter."

Doesn't matter?

We could have died, and he's acting like it was just a minor inconvenience. Like someone spilling champagne on his designer shoes. Actually, I'm pretty sure that would get a stronger reaction out of him.

Before I can say anything, the door bursts open and Braxley's parents sweep in. Mrs. Worthington immediately rushes to her son's side, cooing and fussing over him like he's on death's door.

"These barbaric peasants are still refusing to run more tests," she moans, sweeping his hair back and inspecting his cut like it might have healed more in the fifteen minutes she's been gone, arguing with the nurse's station. "Don't they know who you are?"

Mr. Worthington, meanwhile, is still on his phone, his voice a low, threatening rumble. "I don't care what your policies are. My son needs the best care available, and if you can't provide that, I'll buy this entire hospital and turn it into a parking lot. Do I make myself clear?"

I sink further into my uncomfortable plastic chair, feeling like I'm watching some bizarre play unfold. Is this really my life now? Am I actually going to marry into this family of overgrown toddlers?

The thought makes my stomach churn.

Mr. Worthington clears his throat, tucking his phone away. "Well, that's settled. They'll be keeping Braxley for further observation and tests. And I've arranged for a specialist to fly in from Switzerland."

"Switzerland?" I can't help but ask. "Is that really necessary?"

Three pairs of eyes turn to me, as if suddenly remembering I exist. Mrs. Worthington's gaze is particularly cutting.

"Of course it's necessary," she snaps. "Nothing but the best for our Braxley. You do want what's best for your fiancé, don't you, Bella?"

The word 'fiancé' hits me like a physical blow. Right. That happened. In all the chaos, I'd almost forgotten about the proposal. My eyes flick to my empty finger. I hadn't had a chance to say yes before the shot rang out.

Silver linings, I guess.

Mrs. Worthington's eye twitches. "Did you… not say yes?"

"I didn't have a chance to," I say quickly.

"That's when my murderer took his shot," Braxley adds, his eyes misting.

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