My breath left my body and mind utterly, terrifyingly blank.
The photographer shouted, "Mr. Blackwood! Is there a statement on Olivia's passing?" echoed in the small, recessed corner of the hospital lobby, cutting through the general chaos of the press swarm.
The pieces slammed together with brutal force: the black trench coat, the wealth implied by the black Tesla on the highway, the name of the celebrated actress, and the quiet, crushing grief I had just kissed.
He wasn't just a man whose wife died of cancer. He was Ivan Blackwood, Olivia Blackwood's husband, a Hollywood legend, an artist whose disappearance from the screen had been the subject of endless speculation.
The weight of my own pitiful scandal—the cheating boyfriend, and last night's robbery. I was now tethered to a national tragedy and a man who was the focal point of a media frenzy.
"Get a grip, Kylie," he hissed, his grip on my arm tightening, not out of malice, but sheer necessity. His dark eyes, still red-rimmed, were now alight with cold focus. "what were you doing?!"
"You—you're…..," I stammered, my voice thin. "Olivia Blackwood's husband. Your wife that died ….she's Olivia Blackwood…you're Ivan Blackwood..…"
I'd only heard that her husband was the owner of a billion dollar company and that they'd met at a tennis match. It was a story everyone who knew Olivia knew, but I never really recognized her husband.
"Come on" he snapped, glancing over my shoulder at the glass doors where the press were still clamoring, their voices a muffled roar.
"Are you okay?". He asked, he must have noticed how terrified I was.
I nodded dumbly, the sheer terror of the situation finally overriding my shock. I was a witness to the initial scene of his tragedy, and I had just committed an act of public indiscretion with him.
He pulled me forward, navigating the inner halls with the swift ease of someone who understood how to move unseen in a high-security environment.
He led me away from the main lobby, down several unmarked service hallways, until we reached the room where Thomas and Joe were recovering.
He pushed the door open just enough for me to slip inside, his intense gaze sweeping the room before settling on me.
"Go to your friends." he commanded, his voice low and final.
Before I could form any other questions, he was gone, his black trench coat dissolving into the shadows of the corridor. The door clicked shut, leaving me standing in the quiet of the hospital room.
I stared at the closed door, leaning against it until my knees stopped shaking.
Ivan Blackwood.
The man whose hand I had held, whose tears had dampened my borrowed scrubs, the man whose grief I had shared, a man I had kissed—. The depth of my shame felt infinite.
I placed the small pile of my salvaged belongings on the bedside table—my phone, my cards.
The mystery of the highway robbery and Charles's infidelity suddenly felt like an easier problem to solve.
I sank onto a nearby chair. My first instinct was to call my best friend, Jules.
She answered on the first ring, her voice high-pitched and frayed. "Kylie! Oh, thank God! Charles called me at six in the morning, yelling about how you wrecked your car and vanished, then texted me an hour later saying the bank account was empty! I've been calling you non-stop! Girl, what happened? Are you okay? Where are you?"
"I'm at the hospital on Walsh street, Jules. I'm at the clinic with Joe and Thomas," I whispered, tears finally streaming down my face. "I don't know how I feel. I'm just so scared, and I'm so out of place. Please, can you come here? I need you."
Jules didn't hesitate. "I'm leaving right now. Just breathe, Kylie. Don't move. I'm coming."
I hung up and just sat there, the weight of the last twelve hours pressing down on me.
A low groan brought me back to the room. Thomas was stirring in his bed, blinking against the harsh morning light. Joe, despite his concussion, was still deeply asleep.
Thomas sat up slowly, clutching his bandaged arm and wincing. He looked at me, dressed in the hospital scrubs, his face a mask of exhausted confusion.
"Kylie? You're back? Where did you go this morning?" he asked, his voice rough. "The nurse said you'd already left."
I nodded miserably. "I went to pick up some of my things from the house"
"Oh, and where is Charles?" Thomas demanded, trying to swing his legs out of the bed. "Doesn't he know we're in the hospital?"
I knew he hadn't been able to reach Charles, as none of us had our phones when we were checked in. The realization that Charles hadn't shown up, that he was more concerned with my "vanishment" than his friends' injuries, only fueled the fire in my gut.
"Thomas, sit down," I ordered, placing my hands firmly on his shoulders, forcing him back onto the bed. "You need to calm down and listen to me."
I looked everywhere except his face.There was no gentle way to do this.
I took a deep breath, the devastating truth a bitter lump in my throat.
"Charles wasn't here because he was busy," I started. "I drove all night, risked my life, and lied to him for days to surprise him with his dream car—the G-Wagon—the one you guys helped me move. And when I got to the apartment—."
I started crying again.
Thomas's eyes narrowed. "What are you talking about? ."
"He was in bed," I confirmed, swallowing hard.
"With Lisa."
The words were out.
Thomas stared at me for a beat, his expression shifting from confusion to shock, then to pure, visceral rage.
"No," he growled, shaking his head. "No way. Charles wouldn't..."
But the conviction in my eyes, the tears streaming down my face, and the undeniable truth of the situation shattered his denial. He let out a primal yell, a sound ripped straight from the depths of his betrayal and anger.
He violently threw the covers off his legs and lunged from the bed, ignoring the pain in his arm.
"Where do you think you're going?" I screamed, grabbing his uninjured shoulder, trying to hold his larger body back.
He fought my grip, his eyes wild. "I'm going to kill him! I swear to God, I'm going to go to that apartment and kill Charles!"
"Stop, Thomas! You're injured! You have a concussion!" I yelled, pulling with all my strength.
"That bastard! After everything! He would do that? I don't believe he would disrespect you like that, with Lisa?" Thomas spat out the secretary's name like it was chewed gum.
I held him, my own exhaustion and grief temporarily forgotten, replaced by the need to prevent a scene that would land Thomas in jail and draw the press away from the Blackwood tragedy and right to us. I shouted over his raging sobs.
"Calm down!"
Thomas collapsed back against the bed, subsiding into his rage, burying his hands into his palms.
The door burst open just then, and Jules, breathless and wide-eyed, stood framed in the doorway. She took in the scene—me in scrubs, Thomas weeping with rage, Joe silent in the background—and gasped.
"Kylie!" Jules rushed in, her voice frantic, stepping fully into the room.
But she wasn't alone. Standing right behind her, his face a mixture of panicked concern and aggressive entitlement, was Charles.
He looked exactly like a man who'd spent the last twelve hours frantically searching for his missing girlfriend. He was wearing the same clothes he'd been in when I found him with Lisa, now rumpled and stained with guilt.
Charles bypassed Jules and surged forward, his focus solely on me and his missing assets. "Kylie! What is this nonsense? I get our bank balance wiped out, and the cops call me about a tow order for your Audi! Where the hell have you been?!"
I met his gaze.
"Charles. I repossessed what was already mine."
Charles stumbled to a stop, confused by my calm fury. "What are you talking about? Repossess what? You were supposed to be in Texas!"
Thomas, now fueled by a fresh, blinding wave of righteous anger, launched himself off the bed one final time.
"Don't you dare act confused, Charles!" Thomas roared, ignoring the pain in his arm. He launched himself at his best friend, landing a furious, clumsy punch directly on Charles's jaw.
The blow wasn't clean, but it was effective. Charles staggered backward, hitting the wall, his hand flying up to his mouth. He was stunned, his expression shifting instantly from defensive anger to shocked betrayal.
" What is wrong with you, Thomas?" Charles choked out, spitting a small amount of blood.
Thomas advanced, his voice thick with contempt. "What is wrong with me? while she was out there trying to buy you your dream G-WAGON you were fucking Lisa?!!"
Thomas looked straight into Charles's eyes, the bond of their friendship dissolving into hatred.
"Lisa, Charles. Lisa. How long? How long have you been making a fool out of her?!"
Charles paled, his eyes flickering to Thomas, then to Jules, then finally resting on me. There was no denial.
I didn't even recognize the man I was in love with less than a day ago.
The sound of the scuffle brought a nurse running to the door.
"Is there a problem?". She'd asked, walking in.
I stood there, watching Charles clutch his jaw, his carefully curated world shattering around him in a single, violent punch delivered by Thomas.
The shock on Jules's face, realizing she had walked right into the middle of the carnage, bringing the architect of the disaster with her, was absolute.