In Love With Him

Chapter 31

Dominic’s POV

I couldn’t sleep.

From the guilt. And the worry.

All night I’d heard her. Through the walls. Through the bathroom door.

Kennedy crying.

Kennedy throwing up.

Her pain echoed in my chest like a second heartbeat. Every time I heard her retch, I’d flinch. Every soft sob through the walls made me feel like the worst person alive. The way I brushed her off. The way I made her feel.

And now she was sick. Really sick. And she was upstairs alone, probably still hurting and definitely not speaking to me.

I needed to see her. But I didn’t know how. What if she didn’t want me there?

I made my way downstairs just after sunrise, hoping maybe some coffee would make me feel a little less useless.

Instead, I walked right into an argument.

“I’m telling you, Paul—something isn’t right,” my mom hissed, pacing the kitchen with a fury that made me pause.

“I know,” Paul said, his voice tired and strained. “She’s still refusing to go to the hospital. Said she just wants to rest.”

“She’s in severe pain, Paul. Severe. That’s not just a stomach bug. What if it’s her appendix? Or a cyst? Or something worse?”

Paul dragged a hand down his face. “I’ll take her if she’s not better when we get back. We have the food tasting at 10. If she’s still like this afterward, we’ll take her.”

Mom stopped, turned, and glared at him. “She might not have until after. You’re her father—act like it.”

He didn’t say anything, just let out a long sigh.

She turned toward me, her sharp eyes locking onto mine. “You. Keep an eye on her while we’re gone. If she gets worse, I don’t care what she says—take her to the hospital. Do you understand me?”

I raised an eyebrow and nodded once. “Yeah. Got it.”

She narrowed her eyes, clearly still annoyed, but didn’t press further. Years of experience had taught me that when she was in that mood, the best defense was silence and complete submission. Paul would learn that soon enough.

They grabbed their jackets and headed out the door, leaving the house unnaturally quiet.

Max was at a friend’s house. So it was just me… and her.

I stood there for a moment, trying to decide what to do. The guilt was a heavy weight on my chest. I needed to see her. But what if she didn’t want to look at me? What if she hated me?

Still… if she was as bad as she was last night, I couldn’t ignore it. I wouldn’t.

I quietly made my way upstairs. The hallway was still and heavy, like the air knew something was wrong too. I paused at her bedroom door, gently placing my ear against it.

Silence.

Too quiet.

I knocked lightly. “Kennedy?”

No answer.

I slowly opened the door and stepped inside.

She was curled up in a tight ball in the middle of her bed. Her blanket was barely covering her, and she was drenched in sweat, her hair plastered to her forehead. Her breathing was shallow and labored, her entire body trembling like she’d been caught in a blizzard.

“s**t,” I muttered, rushing to her side.

I reached out—and even before I touched her, I could feel the heat radiating off her skin. She was burning up. Her face was ghostly pale, and her fingers were curled inwards like she was trying to hold herself together.

She was barely conscious.

“Kennedy,” I whispered, gently brushing her damp hair from her forehead. “Hey… hey, come on.”

Her eyelids fluttered open just enough for me to see her eyes—glassy, unfocused, full of pain.

“No,” she croaked weakly, trying to turn away. “I’m… fine.”

“The hell you are.”

I didn’t hesitate. I gently slipped my arms beneath her and lifted her into my chest. She didn’t even fight me. Just let out the softest whimper and nestled her face into the crook of my neck like it was the only place in the world that didn’t hurt.

That sound—God, it almost broke me.

“I’m taking you to the hospital,” I said softly, but firmly.

She didn’t respond. Couldn’t.

I moved fast, carefully but quickly making my way down the stairs. Her body trembled in my arms, and I tried to hold her tighter, like I could somehow shield her from the pain.

I didn’t even stop to grab my phone or my wallet. I just laid her down in the passenger seat, buckled her in, and gunned it to the hospital.

My hands were tight on the steering wheel. My heart pounding in my ears. Every red light felt like it lasted a century.

“Hold on, Kennedy,” I whispered, glancing over at her pale face. “I’m getting you there. Just hang on, okay?”

And silently, I prayed that I wasn’t already too late.

I didn’t give a damn where I parked. I slid my car into the closest handicap spot and killed the engine, jumping out without a second thought. Kennedy’s head lolled against my chest, her skin scalding hot, her breathing shallow and ragged.

I shoved the ER doors open with my shoulder, cradling her like something fragile and precious. “I need help!” I shouted, voice cracking with panic. “Somebody help!”

Within seconds, five nurses swarmed us—two rushing with a bed, one holding a tablet, and the others snapping into motion with frightening precision. They guided me to lay her on the gurney, her body limp and slick with sweat. Her eyes barely opened.

“What’s her name?” one of the nurses asked.

“Kennedy. Kennedy Smith.”

“How old is she?”

“Eighteen. She’s been complaining about severe stomach and back pain, she’s running a fever, she’s been sweating, vomiting—she’s barely conscious.”

“Any allergies? Pre-existing conditions? Medications?”

“I—” I faltered, jaw tightening. “I don’t know.”

“It’s okay, we’ve got her now. You did the right thing.”

They started wheeling her down the corridor, calling out codes and shouting for someone named Dr. Patel. I went to follow but a nurse placed a firm hand on my chest, stopping me.

“Your girlfriend’s going to be okay,” she said kindly. “Let them work. Can you fill this out?”

Girlfriend?

I didn’t correct her.

I just nodded, took the clipboard from her hand like it was made of stone, and stumbled back to the waiting area like a ghost.

I dropped into a plastic chair, staring at the form. My hands shook, but I forced myself to fill in the blanks. Name. Age. Birthday. Address. Emergency contact.

To my surprise, I knew more than I thought I did—her birthdate, her phone number, her blood type. I even knew her pediatrician’s name from when her prescription birth control used to show up at the house.

I scribbled it all down, handed the clipboard back to the nurse, and asked the only thing that mattered.

“Have you heard anything?”

The nurse’s expression softened just enough. “They took her into emergency surgery a few minutes ago. Doctor believes it’s her pancreas. We’ve already contacted her father. He’s on his way.”

“Pancreas?” I repeated, blinking. “She said it was her stomach.”

“Sometimes it radiates pain to the abdomen and back. If you hadn’t brought her in when you did…” The nurse didn’t finish the sentence. She just gave a small nod. “You did the right thing.”

I nodded, numb, and sat back down.

Minutes passed like hours.

Then finally, the doors to the ER waiting room burst open again. Paul and my mom rushed in, out of breath and frantic.

“Where is she?” Paul demanded, running straight over to me. “What happened?”

I stood. “She’s in surgery. They think it’s her pancreas.”

My mom’s hand flew to her mouth. Paul’s face went pale.

“What?” he whispered. “Her pancreas?”

“They said if I hadn’t brought her when I did…” I stopped, shaking my head. “They didn’t say what would’ve happened. But it wasn’t good.”

My mom turned sharply toward Paul, already in mom-mode, already prepping to unleash. “I told you—”

But before she could finish, a doctor in blue scrubs stepped into the waiting room, calling, “Kennedy Smith?”

We all turned. Paul rushed forward. “I’m her father.”

The doctor’s expression was serious, and my stomach twisted in on itself.

He didn’t sugarcoat it.

“We stabilized her. Her pancreas was dangerously inflamed and on the verge of rupturing. If you’d waited even a minute longer...” He exhaled slowly, his voice going quiet. “We’d be having a very different—and much more difficult—conversation.”

My knees nearly buckled.

“She’s okay?” my mom asked, voice trembling.

“She’s in recovery now,” the doctor nodded. “Still under anesthesia. But she’s stable. We’ll monitor her closely for the next 24 hours.”

Paul let out a breath that sounded more like a sob. “When can we see her?”

“She’ll be groggy for a bit, but once she’s awake, the nurse will bring you in one at a time.”

“Thank you,” Paul breathed, shaking the doctor’s hand.

We all let out a collective exhale of relief. The weight in my chest loosened just a little.

But then I saw the look on my mom’s face. Oh, s**t.

She turned to Paul slowly, her eyes narrowing. I’d seen that look more times than I could count—it was the “you’re about to regret every decision you made today” look.

And then she smacked Paul on the arm, hard.

“You almost let her die, Paul!”

He held his hands up in surrender, guilt painted across his face. “I know. I know. I should’ve brought her in sooner.”

“Damn right you should have. I told you something was wrong!”

They launched into a whispered argument, moving toward the corner of the waiting room, leaving me to sink back into the chair and press both palms against my eyes.

Kennedy was alive. Safe.

But only because I got to her in time.

And all I could think was—what if I hadn’t?