Angela's voice cut through the thick, charged air like a blade. "What is this lady's name?" she demanded, her tone sharp, her grip on my arm tightening as if staking her claim.
Walter's wife raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow, her full lips curling into a smirk as she glanced at Max standing beside her. She didn't seem threatened.
If anything, she looked amused. "Nathalie," she said, her voice smooth as aged whiskey, her gaze flicking back to me with a slow, deliberate sweep.
Angela's jaw clenched, her fingers digging into my skin, but before she could retort, a choked, desperate sound echoed from the hallway. "Mother—!"
Nathalie's breath caught in her throat as the hospital bed rolled into view, her body freezing mid-sentence. The sight of Tyler—her son, her baby—reduced to a trembling, broken mess on that bed hit her like a physical blow. His face was a mask of terror, his cheeks streaked with tears and snot, his hospital gown clinging to his sweat-slicked skin.
