frowns. “You’re really not going to leave nicely?”
I don’t respond.
“And you’re not afraid of the cops?”
I didn’t say that. Only that we have a while to wait if she calls them, and I’m holding out hope Sabrina might give me an inch to talk to her.
“How much do you like your fancy suit?” she asks.
“Excuse me?” The question catches me off guard. “Sabrina likes it just fine. Why?”
Paige nods slowly.
Before I can think, the pie in her hand comes barreling at my face.
There’s a loud slap like a wet sponge hitting a cement floor.
Then I’m drowning in flavors I don’t particularly like. Sweet-tasting cream and strawberries drip down my blazer and formerly starched white shirt.
“Bad move, buster. You interrupted my baking time,” she snaps, a hellish smile on her face.
In shock, I drop the coffee I’ve been holding. Somehow, the lid flies off and scalding cinnamon latte splashes my leg. I wipe my hand over my eyes with a groan, slinging off strawberries and cream, just as my phone rings.
“Can I at least have a towel?”
“No. But I’ll take those.” I feel her reach out and yank the truffle box from under my arm.
Right before she kicks me in the shin again.
I stumble back, stunned and dazed from the pie to the face and my phone blaring.
The door slams.
The lock clicks.
Someone passing by in the hall smothers a surprised laugh.
This is not my fucking day.
I wipe my pie-covered hands on my trousers—this suit’s ruined anyhow—and answer the phone.
“Heron,” I growl.
“Mr. Heron, this is Nurse Becky from Northwestern Memorial. Miss Quail is awake and asking for her son.”
Fuck.
Just when I thought things couldn’t get worse.
“Again? What did you tell her this time? I’m on my way.”
“I told her I’d call you and see if you could bring him in.”
“My father left the country with the kid,” I grind out, hating everything. “I’m working on it. Is Marissa more conscious than the last few times?”
“I’m afraid so.” She takes a long, audible inhale. “You may need to request a social worker sit in on the visit. This kind of information could be too much for her to handle right now.”
So not only did I let Baxter Heron run off with Jordan, now I might just kill his mom?
This whole sick scenario is my fault.
I shouldn’t have given Baxter Heron the option of leaving almost a decade ago.
I wish I’d spared him nothing, outed him and burned everything he owned down to the ground. He wouldn’t have Marissa’s son hostage in the Virgin damn Islands.
“Does she really need to know right now?” I fire back into the phone.
“Well...the nurse in me wants to tell you no. But the mom in me is ready to slap you for trying to weasel out of telling that woman you let someone take her kid while she was in a coma. How could you?” She sighs. “Besides, she’s asking about him.”
“Uh—in fairness, I tried to stop him. I’m not his legal guardian, and your lovely security stopped me from getting physical with the flying monkey who carried him off.”
“Well. Talk to the doctor and see if he thinks she can handle it,” the nurse says.
It’s a statement. She doesn’t leave room for argument.
“I’m coming now,” I grumble.
I stagger down the building’s stairs knowing two things.
One, I have to get Sabrina Bristol out of my system, for both our sakes. I owe her space to move on, and I should be entirely focused on my company and getting Jordan home.
And more importantly, I have no fucking clue how I’m going to get through this next thing I have to do. Not without Brina’s kind heart there to help.
Marissa Quail blinks several times when I come into the room. The last time she manages to hold her eyes open.
I don’t know what to say, or even if she knows who I am.
“Hi, Marissa,” I try. “It’s Magnus.”
“Hi.” Her voice is low and dazed. She sounds drugged.
I’m sure she is.
“How are you?” I ask, a stupid question.
She’s still got tubes and wires attached to her body. That alone doesn’t scream well.
She sighs and moans simultaneously. “It hurts. Everything just...hurts.”
“I’m so sorry for what you’ve been through.” Thoughts whip through my brain as I try to think how to help her. “Should I call a nurse? Maybe you could get more painkillers?”
“They told me...I can’t have more. Not yet.” She stares straight ahead. “Thank you for coming.”
I sit down in the chair near her bed, nodding.
“Has anyone talked to you?” I