She tried to answer. No sound came.
The penthouse ceiling was a white blur. Her breath snagged. Somewhere above her Taylor’s voice turned sharper, stripped of polish. “Maya, look at me.”
She forced her eyes open. His face hovered over hers, pale beneath tan skin, every line in it suddenly human. Not composed. Not controlled. Frightened.
That frightened her more than the pain.
“Don’t move.” His hand shook once against her jaw. “Just breathe.”
I am breathing, she wanted to say. But it felt like inhaling through a fist.
He grabbed his phone. She heard the emergency operator answer, heard him give the address with clipped precision, heard the word wife come out of his mouth like something torn loose. Then he was back, kneeling on the floor beside her, one hand on her shoulder, one counting at her wrist because he could not seem to stop touching her, as if contact might keep her anchored.
The next minutes dissolved into sensory fragments. The cold hardness of the stone beneath the rug. The metallic taste at the back of her throat. Taylor’s voice, close and relentless. Stay with me. Breathe. You’re okay. Ambulance is coming. Stay with me. The elevator opening. Footsteps. A medical bag unzipping. Velcro tearing. Bright lights in her eyes. Questions asked too fast. Pain scale? Medications? Known conditions? Is she conscious?
Someone lifted her onto a stretcher.
Taylor followed all the way to the elevator. “I’m coming with her.”
“Sir, are you family?”
His answer came before the paramedic finished the question. “I’m her husband.”
The ambulance smelled like plastic, sanitizer, and electricity. Rain rattled faintly on the roof. Maya drifted in and out of the bright tunnel of the ride, aware at intervals of the medic adjusting something on her arm, the monitor answering with quick green rhythms, the city flashing by in red reflections across Taylor’s face as he sat on the bench opposite, knees braced wide, eyes fixed on her as if he could force her body to obey by sheer intensity.
At the hospital the world became fluorescent.
Sliding doors. Cold air. A nurse with a pen tucked behind one ear. A triage desk. Paperwork. Wheels over linoleum. A curtain drawn. Machines. Someone cutting away the evening’s illusion one practical step at a time.
