Page 64 of Filthy Rich Daddies
And then—God. He just?—
He falls. Like his whole body forgets how to stand.
The camera lurches with my stomach. There’s shouting. Reporters crowd the frame. Someone says his name. And then the feed cuts.
I sit on the edge of my bed, absolutely frozen. My ears ring. My chest tightens. I forget how to breathe.
“He fainted,” Arabella says softly, reaching to close the laptop. “They say he’s stable, but?—”
“I have to go.”
“I have my keys.” She’s already dragging me toward the door.
The hospital is across the city, but we get there like it’s two blocks away and someone dared her to hit every green light. I don’t say anything for the whole drive. I can’t.
Stable doesn’t mean healthy. It just means there’s no change in his condition.
All I can see is the look on Colin’s face before he dropped out of frame. His skin was so pale. The kind of pale you only see on people who’ve been burning the candle at both ends and then just…run out of wax.
I knew he was working hard. I knew he was stressed. I just didn’t know it was this bad. And now? Now, my stomach won’t unclench.
“You’re shaking,” Arabella says, glancing at me before taking a left hard enough to make my seat belt protest.
“I know.” I clutch my hands together. They’re cold. I wish I could say I was surprised at how hard this is hitting me, but I’m not.
I care. God, I care so much it hurts. And I didn’t even realize how much until I watched him drop like that. It’s stupid, but I mumble, “I thought this was casual.”
Arabella sighs. “Sweetie, it stopped being casual the second you moved your tea mug into their dishwasher.”
“I didn’t mean to?—”
“You don’t have to mean to fall in love. Sometimes it just happens when you’re not looking.”
“I’m not in love.”
She snorts. “You sure about that?”
I don’t answer. Because I’m not sure. Because this panic that’s chewing through me? It doesn’t feel like a crush. It feels like something that could break me if it wanted to.
He has to be okay. He has to.
The hospital lobby is too white. Too quiet. Too full of smells that make me think of old people and loss. I bolt to the desk, practically crashing into it.
“Colin Copeland,” I say. “He collapsed at a press conference. Is he—can I see him?”
The nurse behind the desk barely glances up. “Are you family?”
“I—”
I falter. Because what am I? Not his girlfriend. Not his wife. Not even a defined thing. Just the pregnant girl. The chaos. The question mark.
“They’re with us,” someone says behind me.
I turn.
Dean.
Tic.
