The Billionaire’s Fight For Redemption (Noah and Sierra) novel Chapter 364

Lilly.

No one has moved in three hours.

We’ve shifted our weight, changed positions, paced a little, and sat back down, but no one has actually left the room. It feels like if we do, if we step out even for a second, something will happen and we won’t be there for it.

Sierra lies on the bed, machines surrounding her, tracking every breath, every heartbeat, every fragile sign that she’s still here.

I haven’t taken my eyes off her for more than a few seconds at a time.

Aunt Ivy sits beside her, one hand wrapped around Sierra’s, her thumb brushing over her skin in slow, repetitive motions, like she’s trying to ground herself as much as Sierra.

Noah hasn’t said a word. He’s leaning against the wall, his jaw tight, his hands clenched at his sides like he’s holding himself together by force. I’ve never seen him this still, this quiet, and it unsettles me more than if he were shouting or breaking something.

We’re all waiting. Waiting for her to wake up. Waiting for the moment we have been dreading since we were informed.

The sound of a soft shift pulls my attention back to the bed and it lands on Sierra’s twitching fingers.

My breath catches and my heart begins pounding.

“Aunt Ivy,” I whisper, my voice barely audible, but it’s enough.

Aunt Ivy looks down immediately, her body going rigid as Sierra’s eyelids flutter slightly.

For a second, nothing happens, then slowly, painfully, Sierra’s eyes begin to open.

They’re unfocused at first, her gaze drifting around the room as if she’s trying to piece together where she is. Confusion clouds her expression, her brows pulling together as she takes in the white walls, the machines, the people surrounding her.

It takes a moment but then it hits, and I see the exact second it registers.

Her breathing changes, her eyes widening slightly as awareness settles in.

She tries to sit up too quickly and Aunt Ivy moves instantly, supporting her, easing her into a sitting position.

“Careful, sweetheart,” she says softly, her voice trembling despite her effort to keep it steady.

Sierra barely seems to hear her. Her eyes scan the room, frantic now, searching for something that isn’t there.

“My baby,” she says, her voice hoarse and strained. “Where is my baby?”

The question lands like a stone in the middle of the room but no one answers because how are we supposed to answer? How are we supposed to tell?

We’ve gone through this since we were informed and there is no easy way of telling her, no matter which angle we look at it.

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