Page 44 of The Black Wife Blessing

"Mr. Blackwood, this is Mercy General Hospital calling about your wife, Monica Blackwood."

The glass slips from my hand, shattering on the floor. My whole body goes cold.

"What happened? Is she okay?" My voice sounds foreign, like it's coming from someone else.

"Your wife was brought into the emergency room following a car accident. She's currently being treated?—"

"I'm on my way." I hang up before they can say another word.

My mind races with horrific possibilities as I grab my keys, nearly tripping over the broken glass. The elevator feels like it's moving in slow motion. I slam my palm against the wall.

"Come on, damn it!"

In the garage, I jump into my car, hands shaking so badly I can barely get the key in the ignition. Traffic laws become suggestions as I weave through the city streets, running red lights, cutting off other drivers.

All I can think about is Monica. Her laugh. The way she rolls her eyes when I say something ridiculous. How she fits perfectly against me when we sleep.

The thought of losing her—of never seeing her smile again—is unbearable. This isn't just some arrangement anymore. This isn't fake.

I love her. I fucking love her.

And I might never get the chance to tell her.

I grip the steering wheel so tight my knuckles turn white, my mind racing faster than the speedometer as I weave between cars on the road. And then suddenly, the thought hits me. Benjamin. Benjamin, that fucking psychopath. Is he involved somehow? Did he do something to Monica to make her crash her car?

"Son of a bitch." I slam my palm against the wheel. "Son of a goddamn bitch!"

Red lights blur past as I blow through intersections. A horn blares as I cut off some SUV, but I barely register it. All I can see is Monica's face. All I can think about is what that bastard might have done to her.

This isn't just harassment anymore. This isn't just intimidation. If Benjamin tampered with her brakes, this is attempted murder.

My stomach lurches at the thought. I've been playing this all wrong—treating Benjamin like some annoying ex when he's actually a fucking predator. I should have taken this more seriously. I should have done more than hire a lawyer and make threats.

"Please be okay," I whisper, not sure who I'm talking to. "Please, please be okay."

The hospital looms ahead, its emergency lights pulsing against the darkening sky. I screech into the parking lot, tires protesting as I take the turn too fast. I spot an empty space and slam on the brakes, nearly hitting the concrete barrier.

I don't even remember turning off the engine. One second I'm in the car, the next I'm sprinting across the parking lot, dodging ambulances and tired hospital staff heading to their cars.

My heart pounds in my throat as I burst through the sliding doors into the ER waiting room. The antiseptic smell hits me like a wall—sterile, clinical, terrifying. People look up from their phones and magazines, startled by my entrance, but I don't care how I look.

"Monica Blackwood," I gasp at the reception desk, struggling to catch my breath. "My wife. Where is she? Is she okay?"

The receptionist's fingers click against her keyboard, each tap like a hammer to my skull. I grip the edge of the counter, fighting the urge to reach across and shake the answers out of her.

"Mrs. Blackwood is in room 307," she says, glancing up. "Third floor, take a left when you exit the elevator. She's been treated for her injuries and is stable."

Stable. The word should comfort me, but it doesn't. Stable could mean anything. Stable could mean she's barely hanging on. Fuck, I should've been there for her.

"What happened to her? How bad is it?" I demand, leaning over the counter. My voice comes out sharper than intended, but I can't bring myself to care. This is Monica we're talking about.

"The doctor can give you those details, sir." She hands me a visitor badge, unfazed by my intensity. "Just follow the signs to the elevators."

I mumble thanks and take off across the waiting room, dodging a kid playing with toy trucks on the floor. My heart hammers against my ribs like it's trying to escape. The elevator feels like a coffin as it climbs, my reflection in the metal doors looking like a ghost—pale, haunted. I don't recognize the desperate man staring back at me.

My mind keeps cycling through worst-case scenarios. What if she's unconscious? What if there's permanent damage? What if this is just the beginning of Benjamin's revenge?

The doors slide open with a cheerful ding that feels obscene given the circumstances. I follow the signs, my footsteps echoing in the quiet hallway. Each room I pass contains someone's nightmare—curtains drawn, machines beeping, lives hanging in balance.

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