Page 18 of Saving Emily
I stand frozen in the empty corridor, silently contemplating what Jacob is up to. I'm pretty confident with how quick he bolted out of here, he has no intention of resting.
After a few minutes of silent reflection, I return to Noah's room to rub vitamin D cream into the scar on his forehead. A nurse said it would help his wound heal. The doctors have advised Noah can have plastic surgery to improve the appearance of his scar, but I don't think he will. His scar doesn't hinder his sexiness. If anything, it adds more allure to his bad-boy reputation.
13
“Was it you or him?” interrogates a stern female voice I don’t recognize from the doorway almost twenty minutes later.
When I twist to face the voice, my throat works hard to swallow. Delilah is standing in the entranceway of Noah's room. Her arms are crossed in front of her chest, and she's glaring at me.
“Was what me or him?”
Her anger is unmissable when she spits out, “The marriage license?” She turns a piece of paper around to face me. It is a copy of the marriage license I filed weeks ago.
“It was me,” I admit, ignoring the way her stalking frame has my insides quivering. She scares me, but not enough to stop me from protecting what Noah and I have as I should have months ago. “We want to get married.”
The disdain in Delilah’s eyes turns deadly. “You stupid little bitch! You knew Noah agreed to remain attainable to his fans, yet you still applied for a marriage license.” Her roar bounces off the white-washed walls before shrilling into my ears. “A marriage license is public knowledge. That means when someone googles Noah’s name, it pops up in the internet search.”
“I’m sorry,” I apologize, my lips shaking with an equal amount of anger and fear.“I didn’t realize they were public record.”
Although I don’t appreciate her vicious verbal attack, I won’t tell her that. Delilah honestly scares me. My heart is racing a million miles an hour as she towers over me in her black pantsuit to glare at me with pure hate in her eyes.
“If he weren't visiting you, he wouldn’t be in that hospital bed,” she grinds out through gritted teeth as her evil eyes bounce between Noah and me. “And I wouldn’t be forced to make up pathetic stories just to ensure his name never gets linked to your worthless self.” Delilah’s hissed rant confirms what Jacob and I suspected. She started the rumor about Noah being in rehab. “You’re nothing but a pathetic—”
My head snaps to the side quicker than my hand rises to silence Delilah when a male voice yells, “That’s enough, Delilah!”
Delilah balks, stunned by another presence, but her eyes remain narrowed in thin slits.
“This has gone too far. Leave her alone!”
When Delilah spins on her heels to face the person accosting her, I become aware of who's defending me. Cormack is standing in the doorway. His hands are thrust in the pockets of his trousers, and his eyes are locked on Delilah's.
Delilah stumbles out an excuse about how she’s only doing her job before she storms out of the room, bumping into Cormack on her way out. Cormack bombards me with silent apologies for several seconds before he adds words into the mix.
“I’m sorry. This won’t happen again,” he assures me before he exits the room without so much of a backward glance.
To calm the rapid beat of my heart, I inhale many big breaths. It does little to ease my agitation. After standing from Noah's bed, I pace his hospital room while running my confrontation with Delilah through my blurry mind on repeat.
As much as this kills me to admit, she’s right. It’s my fault Noah is lying in a hospital bed. If I had taken him to the airport as promised, he wouldn’t have been in that taxi, which means he would have never been injured so horrifically.
It’s my fault.
I’m the reason my fiancé is fighting for his life.
The guilt from discovering I'm responsible for Noah's injuries weighs heavily on my chest. The pain is so intense it feels as if it's crippling me. I ball my hands into tight fists before gulping down deep breaths, fighting with all my might to ward off the panic attack rapidly surging forward.
"Breathe, Emily, breathe," I chant to myself while battling to fill my lungs with air. It hurts so much it feels like an elephant is sitting on my chest.
Through wobbling legs, I make my way to the window in Noah's room. After closing my eyes, I lean my blemished cheek on the frosted window facing the street below. While struggling not to let a panic attack overwhelm me, I continually remind myself to breathe. The coolness of the window helps keep my mind focused on anything but my agitated state, and my constant prompts to breathe entice my lungs to expand.
Over time, I regain my composure. It's only the tiniest snippet, but it is better than what I had moments ago.
When my eyes flick open, I see a circle of condensation formed on the window from my hot breaths fanning the frigid glass. When I use the sleeve of my shirt to clear away the remnants of my panic attack, the wild beat of my heart I’ve only just calmed kicks up a gear. A gathering of people are on the sidewalk across from the hospital. Noah’s room is several stories high, but I can’t miss the signs they’re holding up. They are messages of support, wishing Noah a speedy recovery. Fresh tears well in my eyes, pleased Noah’s fans are supporting him during his most significant battle.
14
Over the next hour, the number of fans supporting Noah surges in size. It went from a handful of people to hundreds within a matter of minutes. My focus on their candlelit vigil breaks when an impromptu cough sounds outside Noah’s door. Shifting my eyes, I spot Cormack in the entrance of Noah’s room, smiling an uneasy grin.
“I’m sorry for what Delilah said to you, Emily,” he apologizes while pacing deeper into the sanitary smelling space.
