Chapter 8
He yanked her into his arms, clutching her like he could will warmth back into her.
“No, no, no. Isla—wake the fuck up. This isn’t funny.”
His voice cracked, hoarse, desperate. His hands clawed at her back, shaking.
Her head lolled to the side. Her lips were pale, cracked, stained with dried blood. The sight hit him like a sledgehammer.
Fumbling, shaking, he grabbed his phone. “911! Please—my wife—she’s not breathing, she’s ice cold, there’s blood… just get here now!”
The sirens came fast.
Paramedics rushed in, pulling Isla’s lifeless body onto the stretcher. Julian followed, knees on the ground, still gripping her hand like he could anchor her to the world.
“She’s always freezing,” he whispered like a lunatic. “I’ll warm her up. She just hates the cold. I got you, baby.”
One of the medics glanced at the monitor. The flat green line said it all. He pulled the privacy curtain without a word.
The ER lights flashed on, then off. Only fifteen minutes passed before the doctor stepped out, peeling off his mask, eyes carefully avoiding Julian’s.
“Mr. Carter… I’m sorry. Cause of death—acute heart failure.”
Julian didn’t even hear the words. His world had already gone quiet.
“No. No! That’s wrong. She was fine yesterday. She—she was fine! Check again!”
He grabbed the doctor’s coat, eyes bloodshot, hands shaking.
The doctor gently freed himself, not the first time he’d seen denial like this.
Julian collapsed to his knees, fingers digging into his chest.
“She can’t be gone. She was waiting for me…”
The double doors swung open. A gurney rolled out, draped in a white sheet. He didn’t need to see her face. He knew.
Julian lunged forward, grabbing the side rail like it could stop time.
“Isla, wake up! You said you’d wait for me, remember? You said!”
A nurse touched his arm gently.
“Sir… we need to move her to the morgue. Please let go.”
He released the rail slowly, fingers trembling.
And then he followed. Silent. Hollow.
The attendant at the morgue took one look at Julian’s face and sighed. “I’ll give you a moment alone. Say what you need to say.”
Julian didn’t answer. He just stood there.
Then he walked to Isla’s body.
His hand, the same one that once gripped her in anger, now trembled as it brushed her hair off her forehead.
“Look at me,” he whispered. “Please… just look at me.”
She didn’t.
He crumbled to the floor beside her, arms wrapped around himself, sobs breaking free from deep in his throat.
“It was me. I fucked up. I shouldn’t have gone to Rachel. I shouldn’t have lied.”
His voice cracked. Teeth chattered. Nails digging into his palms.
“Isla… Isla… please…”
Evening came.
He returned home like a ghost. The sensor light blinked on at the door.
The soup on the table had grown a grayish film. He sat down, scooped a spoonful, shoved it into his mouth.
It tasted like bile.
He coughed violently, the spoon clattering to the floor. Didn’t care. He downed the rest of the cold soup straight from the bowl.
Back in the bedroom, Julian crawled into the blankets that still faintly smelled like her.
He turned his head.
The drawer was half-open.
Something tugged at his gut. He reached in—and found a pale blue envelope.
To Julian.
Her handwriting.
Delicate. Beautiful.
Like a dagger straight to the heart.
