The constant buzzing of my phone had become a form of torture. I sat cross-legged on Sarah's couch, staring at the screen as another message from Maverick lit up the display.

"You abandoned me after three years? Who does that?"

I flinched, my finger hovering over the delete button. But before I could press it, another message appeared.

"Fine. Delete me. See how that works out for you."

Sarah looked up from her laptop, concern etched across her face. "Still him?"

I nodded, unable to speak as my chest tightened. My hand moved instinctively to my heart—a gesture I'd developed since childhood whenever anxiety gripped me.

"He's not going to stop, is he?" Sarah asked, closing her laptop.

"Not until he gets what he wants," I whispered, scrolling through the barrage of messages that had flooded my phone since yesterday.

The messages oscillated between anger and false contrition with dizzying speed. One moment he was accusing me of betrayal, the next he was apologizing for "getting carried away."

"Come on, Bridge. We can talk this through like adults. I got carried away with Keily. It meant nothing."

My stomach twisted. Nothing? The way he'd kissed her, touched her—it had been anything but meaningless.

"I need those apartment keys back immediately. That's MY place."

Followed by: "Baby, please. I miss you. Let's just talk."

Sarah moved beside me, peering at the screen. "Has he always been this...?"

"Controlling?" I supplied. "I never noticed it before. Or maybe I didn't want to."

My phone buzzed again. This time, it was a text from an unknown number.

"Hey Bridget, it's Keily. Thought you might want to see something."

Attached was a video. My finger trembled as I pressed play.

The footage showed Maverick and Keily tangled together in what I instantly recognized as our bedroom—no, his bedroom now. The same bed where we'd spent countless nights together.

Keily's face turned toward the camera, her lips curved in a deliberate smirk as she whispered, "He was never really yours."

The camera angle shifted, capturing Maverick's back as he moved against her. His voice, husky with desire, carried through the recording.

"She was so boring, K. Always worrying about her heart condition. Like I'm supposed to care about that."

Keily's laughter cut through me like glass. "Poor Bridget. Thanks for keeping him warmed up for me."

I tried to save the video, to have some evidence of what they'd done, but before I could even process what I was seeing, the message disappeared.

"Message has been deleted," my phone informed me coldly.

"Did you see that?" I turned to Sarah, my voice shaking. "Did you see what she did?"

Sarah's eyes were wide with horror. "Oh my God, Bridget—"

But I couldn't hear her anymore. The room was spinning, colors blurring together as pain radiated through my chest. My lungs refused to fill with air no matter how desperately I tried to breathe.

"I can't—" I gasped, clutching at my shirt. "I can't breathe."

The familiar pressure built in my chest—the same sensation I'd experienced during my last heart attack two years ago. The one Maverick had promised to help me prevent by managing my stress.

"Bridget!" Sarah's voice sounded distant as she caught me when I collapsed. "What's happening?"

"Heart," I managed to whisper, my lips tingling with numbness. "My heart—"

I watched in detached fascination as Sarah scrambled for her phone, her fingers flying across the screen.

"911," she shouted into the phone. "Please hurry! My friend is having a heart attack!"

The room tilted sideways as I slid from the couch onto Sarah's hardwood floor. My vision blurred at the edges, darkening like a theater before the final act.

"I need to call Maverick," Sarah said, her voice breaking as she tried his number. "He needs to know what's happening."

I wanted to stop her—to spare myself the humiliation of him not caring—but I couldn't form the words. My consciousness flickered as paramedics burst through the door, their voices urgent and professional.

"BP's dropping," one called out. "We need to move now."

As they lifted me onto a stretcher, I heard Sarah's desperate voice in the background.

"Maverick, please pick up! It's Bridget—she's in the ambulance!"

But there was only silence on the other end of the line.

"Voicemail's full," Sarah whispered, her face streaked with tears as she climbed into the ambulance beside me. "He's not answering."

The last thing I saw before the ambulance doors closed was my phone lighting up with another message from Maverick.

"Where are you? We need to talk."

The world came to me in fragments. Beeping machines. Hushed voices. The antiseptic smell that could only belong to a hospital.

"BP's still dropping," a woman's voice said urgently. "We need to stabilize her now."

I wanted to open my eyes, to tell them I was okay, but my body refused to respond. The weight of exhaustion pressed down on me like a physical force.

"Ms. Stewart?" The voice was closer now. "Can you hear me? I'm Dr. Helen Morrison. You're having a heart attack."

Heart attack. The words echoed in my mind, bringing with them a strange detachment. Of course I was. The pain in my chest had been building for hours, ever since I'd seen that video—since Maverick had chosen Keily over me in every possible way.

"Her heart condition is congenital," Dr. Morrison continued, presumably to someone else in the room. "The emotional trauma has triggered a massive cardiac event. We need to act quickly."

Emotional trauma. They had no idea how deep that trauma went.

---

In the waiting room, Sarah paced frantically, her phone clutched in her hand like a lifeline.

"She's not answering," she muttered, then louder: "Bridget's in the hospital! Her heart—she collapsed!"

I could hear her voice even through the hospital walls, could picture her face streaked with tears as she left yet another message.

"Maverick, please! This isn't a joke! The doctors say it's critical—she could die!"

The silence that followed her plea stretched like an eternity.

"Voicemail again," Sarah whispered, her voice breaking. "How can he not care?"

---

Hours passed in a blur of medical terminology and urgent interventions. I drifted in and out of consciousness, aware of Dr. Morrison's constant presence, her calm voice directing the team around me.

"We've stabilized her for now," she said finally. "But she'll need careful monitoring. The damage from this episode is significant."

Sarah's sob of relief was audible even through the ICU door.

---

"Where is she?" The voice was deep, familiar—not Maverick's harsh tones but something warmer, more concerned.

"Mr. Richardson?" Dr. Morrison sounded surprised. "You're here quickly."

"I was in my office when Sarah called the university." Peter's voice came closer. "How is she?"

"Critical but stable. The emotional trigger was severe—she has an underlying condition that makes her susceptible to stress-induced cardiac events."

I wanted to protest that I was fine, that I didn't need anyone to see me like this, but the words wouldn't come.

"The family?" Peter asked.

"Trying to arrange emergency travel from London. It'll take time."

"I'll handle the logistics," Peter said immediately. "And I'd like to stay with her, if that's permitted."

---

The days blurred together in a haze of medication and monitored recovery. Each time I opened my eyes, Peter was there—sometimes reading quietly in the corner, sometimes speaking softly with the nurses, always present.

Wildflowers appeared on my bedside table—not generic hospital flowers but delicate blue forget-me-nots that somehow knew were my favorite.

"You're awake," Peter said softly, noticing my open eyes.

I tried to speak, but my throat was too dry.

"Don't try to talk yet," he said gently. "You've been through a lot."

He reached for a small book on the table beside him. "I brought something to read to you, if you'd like. Your favorite author—Sarah mentioned you kept his books by your bed."

Tears welled in my eyes as he opened the cover and began to read in his steady, calming voice.

---

"Why are you here?" I finally managed to ask several days later, my voice raspy from disuse.

Peter adjusted his glasses, a gesture I recognized from our classroom interactions. "Sarah contacted the university. Your family asked me to check on you until they could arrive."

"But you don't have to stay," I whispered.

"I know." His smile was gentle, without expectation or demand. "I wanted to be here."

Something in his eyes—something warm and genuine—made my chest tighten in a way that had nothing to do with my heart condition.

"The flowers," I said, nodding toward the wildflowers that brightened my sterile hospital room.

"They reminded me of you," he said simply. "Resilient. Beautiful even in difficult circumstances."

Before I could respond, my phone lit up with a message. Peter handed it to me without looking at the screen.

Maverick's name flashed across the display.

"Where are you? We need to talk."

I stared at the message, my heart—my damaged, fragile heart—clenching with renewed pain.