Too Late To Love Me I Already Left With His Twins (Lydia and Dave) novel Chapter 255

Getting married 255

Surgery in progress

Anna POV

The driver nodded.

We pulled away.

I leaned back against the seat.

And then the thoughts started.

What if she was unconscious?

What if she had internal bleeding?

What if-

No.

I shook my head.

Stop.

She was Lydia.

She was stubborn.

Infuriating.

Impossible.

The woman could survive anything.

She had survived heartbreak.

A divorce.

Two children.

A career.

My terrible cooking.

She was going to survive this too.

She had to.

I looked out the window.

Traffic crawled.

“Please, God.”

I wasn’t even sure I’d said it aloud.

The driver glanced at me through the mirror.

I looked away.

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1/9

progress

My fingers wouldn’t stop moving.

wisted my ring.

Untwisted it.

Checked my phone.

Put it down.

Picked it up again.

No message.

Every minute stretched into something unbearable.

I imagined her alone.

I imagined her calling for the children.

I imagined her opening her eyes and wondering where everyone was.

Then my brain supplied worse images, and I squeezed my eyes shut.

“No.”

The word escaped me.

The driver looked back.

“Ma?”

“Nothing.”

I stared outside again.

I didn’t know how long the journey took.

It felt like hours.

Maybe it was twenty minutes.

Maybe forty.

Time had stopped behaving normally.

Then finally-

“We’re here.”

I looked up.

The hospital appeared through the windshield.

I barely registered the building.

I was already opening the door.

I rushed inside.

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Sumery in progress

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The reception area was bright, crowded and unbearably ordinary.

People were sitting in chairs.

Phones were ringing.

Nurses were moving between desks.

Someone was crying quietly in a corner.

I approached the reception desk.

“Please. I’m here to see Lydia.”

The nurse looked up.

“Full name?”

I gave it.

“She’s a woman in her thirties. She was brought in after a road traffic accident.”

The nurse’s expression changed.

“Are you her guardian?”

“Yes.”

My answer came immediately.

“She is in the emergency section. Through that corridor, on your left.”

“Thank you.”

I didn’t wait.

I ran

The emergency section smelled of antiseptic and blood.

There were doctors moving quickly.

Nurses calling out instructions.

Machines beeping.

Curtains separating one patient from another.

Then I saw her.

I stopped.

My brain refused to recognize what my eyes were seeing.

That couldn’t be Lydia.

That couldn’t possibly be my Lydia.

The woman lying on that bed looked nothing like the woman who had sent me a picture that morning, smiling

into the camera because she’d found a ridiculous pair of earrings she wanted to buy.

progress

I knew the dress.

That was how recognized her.

The same dress she had sent me a picture of earlier that morning.

One of our stupid little rituals.

Does this look good?

Should I wear this?

Tell me honestly.

That dress was torn and darkened with blood.

Her hair was matted against her forehead.

There were dried streaks of blood across her cheek and neck.

A deep laceration ran along her forehead, partially hidden beneath blood–soaked gauze.

Her face was swollen, bruising already spreading around one eye.

There was dried blood around her nose and mouth.

Her skin looked frighteningly pale.

Too pale.

Her lips had lost almost all their color.

A cervical collar held her neck rigid while several monitors surrounded her.

An oxygen mask covered her mouth and nose.

There were tubes everywhere.

IV lines.

Blood.

Dressings.

Machines.

I couldn’t breathe.

“Lydia…”

My knees gave out.

I dropped beside the bed.

“Oh my God.”

My hands hovered over her because I didn’t know where I could touch without hurting her.

“Lydia.”

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Nothing.

Her chest barely moved beneath the blanket.

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“Yes.”

I looked back at the doctor.

“Do it.”

“We’ll need you to sign-”

“Do it.”

“We need the consent form.”

“As long as there is any chance she can survive, I’ll sign anything.”

The doctor nodded.

“We’ll do everything medically appropriate.”

A nurse brought the paperwork.

I sat down at the small desk with hands that wouldn’t stop shaking.

Name.

Relationship.

Consent.

Signature.

My handwriting looked nothing like mine.

The pen slipped once.

I picked it up again.

Signed.

Again.

Again.

My signature appeared across every page.

When I finished, I stood.

And then I saw them wheeling Lydia away.

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7/9

Her body looked impossibly small beneath the white sheet.

Her face was barely visible beneath the oxygen mask.

The monitors continued their rhythmic beeping.

“Lydia!”

The bed disappeared through the theatre doors.

The doors swung shut.

I stood frozen.

Above them, the red light switched on.

SURGERY IN PROGRESS.

I stared at it.

One minute passed.

Then another.

I sank into the nearest chair.

My phone was still in my hand.

The screen lit up.

A message from the children.

They’re asking why I wasn’t home.

I couldn’t answer.

I pressed the phone against my chest.

Twenty percent.

That number kept repeating inside my head.

Twenty percent.

Twenty percent.

Twenty percent.

I looked at the red light again.

And for the next twenty hours, time stopped being measured in minutes.

It was measured in footsteps approaching the theatre doors.

In nurses walking past without stopping.

In cups of untouched coffee going cold between my hands.

In every phone vibration that made my heart leap.

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8.9

In every time the red light remained on.

Twenty hours.

Twenty hours of waiting to find out whether my best friend would walk back through those doors-

or whether the woman I loved like a sister would leave me forever. 1

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