Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 100423 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 502(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100423 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 502(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
“I’m… okay,” I say, but I’m not, not really, because I’m confused, lost in the haze of what happened. “Why am I here?” My voice trembles, and I glance at the IV, the monitor beeping softly, its green lines steady but foreign.
Hugh’s hand squeezes mine, his eyes softening. “You passed out, probably from shock and stress. You were so exhausted, Lauren. The doctor gave you a sedative to help you sleep and recover your energy. You’ve been out for a few hours.”
I turn to the window, the harsh daylight, confirming his words. The memories of the fire come roaring back—the flames, the heat, the quilt smoldering. “What happened?” I ask, my voice small, afraid of the answer. “The cottage… how’s everything?”
He hesitates, his fingers stilling on mine, and says, “They’re taking care of it now. Inspectors are at the house, figuring out what caused the fire. They’ll let us know what caused it soon. Everything will be resolved, don’t worry.” There’s a crack, a vulnerability that I’ve never seen before, and I believe him. I want to believe him, but the loss of the cottage is a knife in my heart. And my loss is his gain. That’s something that can’t be ignored, but I won’t face it now. Not yet.
I look at him, really look. My eyes catch a small burn on his forearm, red and blistered, peeking from his rolled-up sleeve, and worry surges as my hand reaches for it, but he catches my fingers and holds them gently, stopping me from straining the IV.
“It’s fine,” he says, his voice soft but insistent. “Just a small burn. The doctor says it’ll heal perfectly, no issue.” He smiles, trying to reassure me, but I see the fatigue in his eyes, the soot still clinging to his hair, and I know it could’ve been worse, so much worse.
“It could’ve been worse,” I echo, my voice breaking, and gratitude overwhelms me because he saved me, pulled me from the flames, risked his life for me. “Thank you, Hugh,” I say, my eyes stinging, tears welling as I try to hold them back, try to stay strong, but the weight of my crushed dream presses down on me. “Thank you so much for saving me.” My voice cracks, and I can’t stop the tears spilling, hot and silent, down my cheeks.
He leans in, his strong arms wrapping around me, pulling me close against his chest, his shirt rough with dried sweat and ash, his scent familiar, grounding. “No problem, no problem,” he mutters, his voice thick, his hands stroking my back, comforting and steady.
“I won’t let anything happen to you, Lauren.” His words are a vow.
I cling to him, sobbing softly, my tears soaking his shirt, my gratitude and fear tangling together, because he’s here, we’re alive, but everything else is gone.
The doctor enters, her white coat crisp. “Hi. How are you feeling?”
“Fine,” I reply, and her smile widens.
“That’s good.” She smiles. “I’m happy to announce that you’re stable and clear to leave whenever you’re ready. You didn’t have any significant smoke inhalation, and right now what you need is rest and hydration.” Her voice is calm, professional, but I barely hear her, because leaving means facing the cottage, the blackened ruins, the life I’d started to build, now ash. My heart races, nervous, heartbroken, and I grip Hugh’s hand tighter, my eyes fixed on the window, avoiding the truth waiting outside.
We leave the hospital.
Hugh’s arm around me, his warmth a shield as we step into the chopper, the blades humming, lifting us back to the estate.
He sees my distress, the way my shoulders tense, and murmurs, “Don’t worry, Lauren, it’ll be fine.”
But his words feel hollow because nothing feels fine, not when my home is gone. From the helicopter, I can’t help it—I look down. And there it is, the cottage, its stone walls charred, huge swaths blackened, the roof collapsed, the windows gaping like wounds. My heart breaks, a physical ache, and I cry silently, my hand pressed to the glass, tears streaming as Hugh’s hand rests on my shoulder, strong but helpless.
We land, and I walk to the cottage, my steps slow, the air still smelling of smoke, acrid and bitter. Work vans are parked nearby, inspectors in hard hats poking through the debris, their voices low, their tools clinking against scorched wood. Hugh walks over to Joseph, his estate manager, and Dustin, an electrician, their faces grim as they discuss wiring, construction errors, a spark that might’ve started it all.
I overhear “faulty circuit” and “rushed job,” and my stomach twists, wondering if the renovations, the ones Hugh pushed for, caused this, if someone made a mistake, if this was preventable. I need someone to blame. I’m so upset my hands are trembling as I stare at the charred ruins. The pink sofa that I fell in love with is a melted hunk of burnt husk and twisted metal.