The world slowly stops spinning on its axis, like someone’s gradually turning down the speed on a merry-go-round. My ears are ringing, blocking out any other sound. When things finally come into focus, I’m staring at what looks like a scene from an action movie gone wrong.
Debris is everywhere, and the car is on fire. People are rushing over, a mix of bravery and concern on their faces. “Are you okay?” they shout at me over the noise. I manage a weak nod, but I’m freaking out on the inside, wondering if anyone else was injured in the blast.
“Was anyone else hurt?” The question comes out weakly.
“No, just you,” someone says, and I’m caught between feeling relieved and utterly alone. Relief edges out, but it’s a bittersweet win.
The ambulance siren cuts through the haze, growing louder as it nears, a beacon of hope in a sea of chaos. There I am, smack in the middle of it all. So much for my incognito trip away from the mansion.
As the paramedics hustle over, I can’t help but think about how this whole mess is a giant, flashing sign that I’m onto something big. Someone went to a lot of trouble to scare me or even try and take me out of the picture for good.
As the EMTs load me onto the stretcher, my brain shifts into high gear. Sharon, the will, the family secrets—they’re all clues in this twisted mystery I’m involved in. And if someone’s desperate enough to pull a stunt like this to keep me from digging into it, then I must be getting close to something they don’t want to be found.
This isn’t a game anymore. As the ambulance doors close, hiding the fiery wreck from view, I swear to myself that whoever’s behind the explosion is going to regret that they ever messed with a true Flanagan.
My surroundings are like a TV with bad reception, flickering in and out until everything snaps into sharp focus. I squint against the brightness of a hospital room, the quiet buzz of machines around me oddly comforting. It’s now morning, and outside the window, Chicago goes on about its day, oblivious to the chaos going on in mine.
Twisting my head—a move I instantly regret—I catch sight of two hulks in suits loitering by my door. Bodyguards.
Just as I’m mentally tallying up all the areas where I hurt, the door swings open and in walks a woman with a chart in her hand.
“Morning,” she says. I’m Dr. Susan Rivera. It looks like you’ve been playing a game of tag with consciousness, but it’s good to have you fully back. How’re you feeling?”
I lie there, trying to figure out how to answer her, seeing as I feel like I’ve gone a few rounds with a freight train. “I’m really sore, but otherwise okay. Is my husband here?”
Dr. Rivera pauses, choosing her words carefully. “Actually, before we get to that, there’s something I need to talk to you about.” That’s all it takes for my brain to jump to DEFCON 1.
“Is something wrong?” I ask. The question sounds sharper than I intended.
Dr. Rivera tries to smooth things over with a smile, but my stomach’s already doing somersaults. “It’s not bad news, just… personal.” Her attempt at calming me does little to dial down my anxiety.
“Tell me then,” I push, my patience running thin. I need facts, not suspense. “Please,” I add in a softer tone.
She takes a deep breath before dropping a bombshell. “Well, we did the standard bloodwork when you arrived, and it appears you’re pregnant.” She says it with a smile, trying to package it as good news.
It takes a second for her words to really hit home. Pregnant. Me? It’s a lot to wrap my head around. It feels as if I’ve suddenly been handed a puzzle with half the pieces missing.
For a brief moment—the explosion, the constant danger, the multiple attempts on my life—all fade into the background. This news reshuffles everything, putting this tiny new life at the center of my universe.
Dr. Rivera’s expression softens as she notices my struggle to grasp the reality of her news. “I wanted to tell you first, alone, so that you can figure out how you want to tell your husband,” she explains, her voice gentle, understanding.
“Thank you,” I manage, my mind racing with thoughts of the future, of Luk and me, of the unexpected life growing inside me. The gratitude I feel for her sensitivity is genuine, even if it’s overshadowed by my distant response due to the whirlwind of emotions I’m experiencing.
Our conversation is cut short by the sight of Luk approaching the room. His presence is like a storm rolling in, his eyes dark with an intensity that speaks volumes. He pushes open the door, the very air seeming to shift around him.
Dr. Rivera stands her ground, professionalism personified. “Mr. Ivanov, I know you’re concerned, but Maura’s not yet ready for visitors,” she asserts, trying to buffer the tension.
Luk’s gaze is unwavering, his voice low and demanding. “I need to see my wife,” he firmly states, leaving no room for argument.
Dr. Rivera looks to me for guidance, her expression asking the question her lips do not. The sight of Luk at that moment—so fiercely protective, so unmistakably present—I feel a wave of relief wash over me. “It’s fine,” I say, my voice sounding stronger than I feel. “He can stay.”
As I look at my husband, his presence steadies me. His eyes replace mine, and I can see the battle raging behind his gaze—so many conflicting emotions fighting to express themselves.
I can see what he’s feeling as he gets closer: pissed off, confused, scared, relieved. It’s all right there on his face. And a realization hits me hard—no matter how crazy things get, there’s no one else I want standing beside me.
Luk gently sits down on the edge of my bed. “I ought to be mad at you for going rogue,” he starts, and I can hear the emotion in his voice. “And I am. But mostly, I’m just damn glad you’re still here.” He grabs my hand, and just like that, I’m anchored. He’s looking at me like he’s trying to read my mind. “What has the doctor told you?” he asks, searching my eyes for immediate answers. I look to Dr. Rivera still standing at the foot of my bed. I give her a look that I hope she can read before she speaks.
“Your wife suffered a minor concussion and mild smoke inhalation, along with plenty of bruises and contusions, Mr. Ivanov. She’ll need lots of fluids and plenty of rest, but I’m comfortable releasing her if you can assure me that she’ll get what she needs.” She returns a look that tells me she understood that I wasn’t ready to reveal the pregnancy just yet.
“Trust me, Doctor. I will be wait on my wife hand and foot for as long as she needs,” Luk replies. I’ve already hired a private, in-home nurse to tend to her while she recovers.”
Hearing that, I’m torn. I want to get out of the hospital as quickly as possible, yet I’m dreading stepping back into our world—a world where it seems like we’re always looking over our shoulders. But I’m starting to feel like Luk and I are a true team, and that maybe we can handle this—together.
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