them.
Let him be okay. Please let him be okay.
The elevator is agonizingly slow, stopping on each floor. Come on . . . Come
on! I will it to move faster, scowling at the people strolling in and out and
preventing me from getting to my dad. Finally, the doors open on the third
floor and I rush to another reception desk, this one staffed by nurses in na一vy
uniforms.
“Can I help you?” asks one officious nurse with a myopic stare.
“My father, Raymond Steele. He’s just been admitted. He’s in OR4, I think.”
Even as I say the words I am willing them not to be true.
“Let me check, Miss Steele.”
330 | P a g e
E L JAMES
I nod, not bothering to correct her as she gazes intently at her computer
screen.
“Yes. He’s been in for a couple of hours. If you’d like to wait, I’ll let them know
that you’re here. The waiting room’s there.” She points toward a large white
door, helpfully labeled WAITING ROOM in bold blue lettering.
“Is he okay?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.
“You’ll ha一ve to wait for one of the attending doctor to brief you, ma’am.”
“Thank you,” I mutter—but inside I am screaming, I want to know now!
I open the door to reveal a functional, austere waiting room, where Mr.
Rodriguez and José are seated.
“Ana!” Mr. Rodriguez gasps. His arm is in a cast, and his cheek is bruised
on one side. He’s in a wheelchair with one of his legs in a cast too. I gingerly
wrap my arms around him.
“Oh, Mr. Rodriguez,” I sob.
“Ana, honey.” He pats my back with his uninjured arm. “I’m so sorry,” he
mumbles, his hoarse voice cracking.
Oh no.
“No, Papa,” José says softly in admonishment as he hovers behind me.
When I turn, he pulls me into his arms and holds me.
“José,” I mutter. And I’m lost—tears falling as all the tension, fear, and
heartache of the last three hours surface.
“Hey, Ana, don’t cry.” José gently strokes my hair. I wrap my arms around his
neck and softly weep. We stand like that for ages, and I’m so grateful that my
friend is here. We pull apart when Sawyer joins us in t
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