While I Was Comatose, My Fiancé Proposed to My Sister

The first thing I feel is the weight of my own eyelids.

It takes three tries to open them. The light is wrong—too bright, too white, pressing down like a hand over my face. I blink. Once. Twice. The blur sharpens into a ceiling I don't recognize. Acoustic tiles. A smoke detector. A fluorescent panel humming overhead.

I try to move my fingers. They twitch. Barely.

My throat is dry, my tongue thick. There's a tube taped to the back of my left hand, an IV line snaking up to a bag of clear fluid hanging from a steel pole. The sheets smell like bleach and something else—something floral and cloying that makes my stomach turn.

Lilies.

I turn my head, slow, and see them on the nightstand. A massive arrangement in a crystal vase. White lilies, their petals wide open, their centers dusted with orange pollen. I don't remember asking for flowers.

I don't remember anything.

No—that's not true. I remember driving. Rain on the windshield. Headlights in the rearview mirror, too close, too fast. The sound of metal screaming. Then nothing.

How long has it been?

I try to sit up. My body doesn't cooperate. My arms shake. My ribs ache. I fall back against the pillow, breathing hard, and that's when I see them.

Scars.

Thin white lines running up the inside of my forearms. Needle marks. Too many to count. Some old, some newer. I stare at them, my pulse ticking faster, and I don't understand.

A voice drifts in from the hallway. Low. Male. Familiar.

"She looks beautiful today."

I freeze.

That's Matteo.

I turn my head toward the door. It's open a crack, just enough to see a sliver of the corridor outside. Two figures stand close together under the fluorescent lights. Matteo's back is to me, his shoulders broad in a charcoal suit jacket I've seen a hundred times. His hand is wrapped around someone else's—small fingers, pale skin, a diamond glinting on the fourth finger.

The woman leans into him. Dark hair falls over her shoulder. She presses her face against his chest, and he bends down, murmuring something I can't hear.

She laughs softly. It's a sound I know.

Ailani.

My breath catches.

Matteo kisses the top of her head. His hand moves to her waist, familiar, possessive. She tilts her face up, and he smiles at her the way he used to smile at me.

"Next month," he says, louder now. "The Plaza. Everything you wanted."

"I can't believe it's real," Ailani whispers.

"It's real," he says. "You're mine."

Footsteps approach from the other end of the hall. A nurse in pale blue scrubs walks past my door, glances at the couple, and grins.

"You two are adorable," she says. "I heard about the engagement party. Next month, right?"

Ailani beams. "Yes. We're so excited."

"Congratulations," the nurse says warmly. She disappears around the corner.

Matteo and Ailani linger a moment longer. He tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. She rises on her toes and kisses him.

Then they walk away.

I lie in the bed, staring at the ceiling, my hands curled into fists I can barely feel.

Engagement party.

Next month.

The Plaza.

I close my eyes. I don't cry. I can't. My chest is tight, my throat raw, but no tears come. There's only a cold, settling clarity spreading through me like frost over glass.

The nurse comes in twenty minutes later. She's cheerful, humming under her breath as she checks my IV line and adjusts the pillow behind my head.

"Welcome back, sweetheart," she says. "You gave everyone quite a scare."

I swallow. My voice comes out hoarse, barely a whisper. "How long?"

She pauses, her smile faltering. "How long were you out?"

I nod.

"Three years," she says gently. "You've been in a medically sustained coma since the accident. But you're awake now, and that's what matters."

Three years.

I stare at her. She pats my hand and leaves.

I lie in the dark after she turns off the light. The lilies glow faintly in the shadows, their sickly-sweet smell filling the room. I count the needle marks on my arms. I think about Matteo's hand on Ailani's waist. I think about the word "engagement."

I don't move.

I don't speak.

I just think.

Late that night, I hear voices in the hallway again. My father this time. Marcus Howard. His voice is low, clipped, businesslike.

"She's awake, which complicates the extraction schedule."

I go still.

"Keep her compliant," he says. "Tell her it's part of her recovery. The next marrow draw is Thursday. Ailani's levels are dropping."

Silence.

"I don't care," Marcus says. "Make it work."

Footsteps fade down the hall. He doesn't come into my room. He doesn't check on me. He just walks away.

I lie in the dark, staring at the needle marks on my arms, and I understand.

I understand everything.

The next morning, Marcus visits. Four minutes. He stands at the foot of my bed, hands in his pockets, and tells me the family has "taken care of everything" while I was gone. He says I shouldn't worry about business matters. He says I need to focus on getting stronger.

He doesn't ask how I feel.

He leaves.

Then Matteo and Ailani come in together. Ailani sits beside me, takes my hand in both of hers. Her fingers are cold. She smiles, her eyes wide and soft.

"Oh, Bellamy," she whispers. "You poor thing. You must still be so weak."

Matteo stands behind her, one hand on her shoulder. He glances at me briefly, then looks away.

I smile.

"Thank you," I say quietly. "I'm so glad you're here."

Ailani squeezes my hand.

I squeeze back.

And I begin to plan.