CHAPTER 347 NYLA

I wake to the hushed rattle of a medication cart rolling along the hallway outside my hospital room. For a heartbeat, I forget where I am, disoriented by the stiff mattress beneath me and the antiseptic smell clinging to the back of my throat. Then my senses sharpen. I’m at Crestwood Hospital. I’m no longer an inmate at Stonebridge Correctional, but I’m far from free in any real sense. There’s a guard by the door, a half-tension in the air, and a swirl of dread in my belly that tightens whenever I recall why I’m here.

Something aches just behind my eyes—a combination of poor sleep and raw, churning anxiety. I blink, noticing the slivers of early morning light falling across my sheets. My phone rests on the rolling bedside tray, screen face-down as though it’s hiding from me. If I pick it up, I’ll see unread messages from Margaret or from other worried friends. I’ll stare at them, read them, reread them, and still feel the same pounding dread inside. Maybe not picking it up is best.

But I can’t let the day pass without looking, so I reach over and flip the phone face-up with my fingertips. Immediately, my chest squeezes—there’s a text from Margaret waiting: “The Forensic team’s nearly done. They’re 99% sure Trixa’s orchard sabotage logs are legit. Will confirm soon. Hang tight!”

A shaky breath seeps out of me. This is what I’ve been praying for: final proof that I was never the saboteur, that everything Marcus pinned on me was a monstrous lie. If the experts sign off, tomorrow’s hearing could be the final blow against the prosecution’s entire case. And yet, what if it all collapses at the last second? I’ve seen illusions rip themselves apart right when I felt safest.

My heart thumps uncomfortably as I read Margaret’s message a second time. The word “legit” leaps out, a promise that maybe I’ll walk out of this hospital with charges dropped, my name cleared. The tension that’s defined my life for months flutters inside me like a cornered bird. I want to rejoice, but dread keeps me pinned. Because I know—the more cornered Marcus feels, the more vicious he becomes.

I drop the phone onto my lap, letting my head fall back against the pillow. The old me would have simply wept with relief that evidence is on my side. The new me, shaped by heartbreak and betrayal, can’t trust relief so easily. There’s always another blow waiting in the wings.

A knock at the partially open door startles me. A nurse in pale scrubs peeks inside, offering a gentle smile when I meet her eyes.

“Good morning, Ms. Thomas,” she says softly, stepping in and checking the fluid levels on my IV line. “How are you feeling?”

I force a polite nod. “Better,” I manage, though it’s half-truth. My body’s battered from stress, but physically, I guess I’m stable enough. “Thank you.”

She’s quick but competent, taking my blood pressure, making small talk about how the corridors are quieter than usual. I ask if Jacob is around—he must have gone off to talk to the Stone board again. She offers a sympathetic tilt of her head. “He stepped out early, I believe. Looked determined.”

A flicker of warmth seeps through me: Jacob. Always determined. Always pushing for my name’s vindication. For a moment, the tension behind my sternum loosens. “Thank you,” I whisper again.

The nurse finishes her checks. “You had mentioned wanting to see Derek this morning? I can help you get into your wheelchair if you’re still feeling up to it.”

At the mere mention of Derek, a tightness returns. My dear friend, shot and left for dead amid some orchard ambush we barely understand. We need him to testify. More than that, I just need him in my life. I nod firmly. “Yes. Please. Let’s go see him.”

She helps disconnect the IV for a short time, hooking me up to a portable line. With her steady guidance, I swing my legs over the edge of the bed. My entire body protests the movement, muscles stiff from too many nights sleeping in anxious knots. But I push through, letting her settle me into the wheelchair. The wheels squeak faintly, and I can’t help a flashback to the prison’s squeaking corridor cart. I banish that memory before it drags me under.

The nurse leads me out into the hallway. Bright morning light streams through tall windows, highlighting the sterile floors that reflect overhead fluorescents. Staff hustle past with clipboards and stethoscopes, engaged in the everyday hustle of saving lives. Yet each of them casts me a glance—some purely curious, some pitying. I try not to shrink beneath their scrutiny, reminding myself I’m no longer an inmate. I hold my chin a fraction higher.

A few corners later, we reach the ICU, where Derek has been for days. The nurse guiding me steps aside to let another staff member open the glass door to Derek’s room. My pulse skitters as I roll inside, eyes locking onto the shape in the bed. The beep of monitors forms a steady, unnerving lullaby.

He lies there, pale and unmoving, the tubes in his arms and the bandage near his temple a stark reminder of the bullet wound that nearly took his life. The nurse stands by, giving me space. I push the wheelchair closer, swallowing the sob that threatens to escape.

A second nurse in Derek’s room looks up. “Good timing,” she murmurs with a subdued smile. “He’s stable. We even saw a faint response in his neural checks earlier—a twitch or two.”

My heart leaps. “Really?” My voice cracks, and I cling to that precious hope, imagining him waking. “So he’s… improving?”

She offers a careful nod. “It’s too early to celebrate. But yes, we saw a small flicker.”

I wish I could jump from the wheelchair and fling my arms around Derek in joy. Instead, I reach for his hand. It’s warm but limp, unresponsive. My eyes flick to the monitors: lines that represent his heart rate, oxygen saturation, brain activity. The nurse’s words echo: It’s too early to celebrate. I can’t help the pang of disappointment that stabs me. The improvement is real, but small. 

I move in closer, hoping maybe my presence might evoke another flutter of recognition. “Derek,” I whisper, voice trembling. “I don’t know if you can sense anything, but they say you might be stirring. If you can hear me, listen closely. The final hearing is tomorrow. We might have the evidence to clear me. But I still need you. We all need you.” My breath hitches as the beep of the machine remains steady, no sign of a miraculous awakening.

Tears glaze my eyes, but I won’t let them fall. “Trixa’s sabotage logs are nearly verified,” I continue softly. “Jacob’s fighting for me. For you. We just… want you to come back, okay?” My fingers brush against his, hoping for the faintest squeeze. Nothing. Yet I cling to that nurse’s mention of a neural twitch, a spark of something. Perhaps tomorrow, or next week, he’ll open his eyes, and the sabotage’s final puzzle pieces can be revealed. For now, I breathe in and out, refusing to crumble.

Behind me, the staff shifts, politely giving me privacy. I lean in, pressing my forehead near Derek’s arm. “Hold on,” I murmur. “We’re so close.”

After a few more minutes, the nurse gently prods me that my vitals check is overdue. I nod, letting her wheel me back out into the corridor. My mood is a tangled swirl of relief—a faint neural response—and frustration that Derek is still unreachable. At the same time, my phone buzzes in my lap: a text from the judge’s clerk, telling me the hearing is indeed set for tomorrow, so I need to be prepared.

My palms sweat against the wheelchair’s armrests. Tomorrow. Everything might be decided tomorrow. The entire fiasco that’s overshadowed my life, rebranded me as a murderer, placed me in prison while pregnant—it could end in under twenty-four hours.

In the hospital corridor, Jacob’s voice echoes from around the corner, sounding tense. The nurse wheels me forward until we spot him. He’s leaning against a wall, phone to his ear, free hand gesturing in agitation. The moment he sees me, he wraps up the call abruptly, stuffing the phone in his jacket pocket. My nurse discreetly rolls me up to him, then steps back to let us talk.

He offers a taut smile, though tension radiates off him. “Hey,” he says quietly. “How’s Derek?”

I fill him in. “They said a faint neural sign. I guess he’s improving. Still comatose, though not worsening like last time.”

Jacob runs a hand through his hair, relief flashing across his features. “That’s something. Better than no progress at all then worsening at the same time. He’s too stubborn to let go easily.”

I nod, exhaling. “That’s what keeps me going.” Then I tilt my head, scanning his face. “What about you? You look… upset.”

A low growl vibrates in his throat. “The Stone board. Some members are still entertaining the idea of letting Marcus invest. They claim they can’t ignore the potential funds. I told them they’re insane. If Trixa’s data is verified, Marcus’s name will be nuclear. But they said they want to see the final results first.”

My jaw tightens. “Even after everything he’s done to sabotage us? They still want his money?”

Jacob gives a helpless shrug. “They’re desperate. They’re pressuring Julia, almost forcing her to cry in the boardroom. Damn it. The hospital nearly faced ruin from all the negative press. And apparently, Marcus offered a quiet bailout. They figure if you’re found guilty, they’ll need a backup investor. It’s disgusting. I told them to wait at least one more day.”

Anger flickers hot in my chest. I glance away, inhaling slowly to keep calm. “Well, hopefully tomorrow’s hearing clarifies everything. Once I’m cleared, they won’t have an excuse to keep courting him.”

He nods, letting out a heavy sigh. “Yeah. I just hate how easily they considered letting him back in, like they forgot he staged half this fiasco. I…” His voice trembles with frustration, and it occurs to me again how intensely he cares. Not just about the hospital’s reputation, but about me. About my future, our future.

Reaching out, I rest a hand on his sleeve. “Thank you,” I say quietly. “You keep fighting for me, even when some of them are ready to discard me.”

His shoulders soften. “Nyla, you’re not something to be discarded. You never were. I’m just sorry you have to endure this roller coaster. One day to go, hopefully.”

I swallow the lump in my throat, aware that tomorrow might be my deliverance—or my final condemnation. “One day,” I echo, trying to muster a smile.

A few hours later, I’m back in my hospital room, the hush of mid-afternoon enveloping the place. Jacob leans on the windowsill while I lie partially reclined, my wheelchair parked nearby. I watch him scroll through something on his phone—a digital pamphlet about prenatal care. My lips twitch in an involuntary smile. The scene is so domestic, so oddly sweet in a life overshadowed by conspiracy and sabotage. I never thought we’d get this: a moment to dream about normalcy and our baby’s future.

He lifts his gaze, noticing me staring. “What?” he asks, half-smiling.

“Just… seeing you read that,” I say, voice soft. “Makes me realize we still have a life to build after all this. The baby, a home, a chance to be parents.”

He sets the phone aside, crossing to my bedside. “We will have that. I know we will. Soon.” He strokes my hair gently. “In a way, it’s comforting. No matter how messy everything is, there’s a new life coming that depends on us. We can’t give up.”

Warmth seeps through my chest, and for a second I forget my fear. I catch his hand and press it lightly against my abdomen. “Thank you for reminding me,” I whisper. “Sometimes I get lost in the nightmares.”

His eyes shine with quiet determination. “Then I’ll keep reminding you.” He leans down, pressing a tender kiss to my forehead. I close my eyes, letting his warmth anchor me.

Evening creeps in, and an unsettling hush falls across the hospital. The nurse checks me again, offering a mild sedative for stress, which I decline. I want a clear head. Sleep hovers, but fear wards it off. I drift in and out, thoughts swirling about Derek’s faint response, the board’s betrayal, the orchard attack. At some point, I realize Jacob slipped out, probably for a meeting or phone call. My chest tightens with longing for his presence, but exhaustion tugs me under.

A noise at midnight yanks me from restless half-sleep. My private nurse, Jemma, a trusted friend of Margaret and someone who has been taking care of Nyla,  stands by the door, phone in hand, voice urgent as she calls my name. My heart flips. “What’s wrong?” I croak, struggling to sit upright.

She steps forward, her expression brimming with tension. “Margaret texted. The forensics team confirmed Trixa’s logs. They’re one hundred percent certain. They’ve shared the results with the judge’s office. The hearing tomorrow is set.” She offers me a small smile. “This is good news, Ms. Thomas. Potentially the best.”

A tremor rolls through me. I reach for my phone on the bedside tray. Sure enough, there’s a message from Margaret, succinct but loaded with meaning: “Logs fully authenticated. Tomorrow’s hearing is it. Prepare for a final blow to prosecution. Good luck.”

The nurse touches my arm gently. “Need anything? Water? You look a bit pale.”

My pulse throbs. “N-no, I’m okay. Thank you.” She nods and exits. I’m left staring at the glowing phone screen. So this is it. Trixa’s sabotage logs are officially validated. The entire structure of the case that pinned me as a murderer might crumble in less than twelve hours. A wave of relief surges, but it collides with a fiercer wave of dread that threatens to drown me.

Because what if Marcus tries something monstrous out of desperation? He’s unhinged, rumor says. Could he send men to sabotage Trixa’s data physically? Or to silence Derek before he recovers? I rub my arms, shivering in the mild hospital air. A thousand nightmare scenarios crowd my mind.

I push the wheelchair forward until I’m at the window. The moon hangs low in the sky, silver light shimmering on the cars in the parking lot below. My reflection in the glass is that of a woman caught between hope and terror. My hair is limp, my eyes shadowed with sleepless worry. The hospital gown drapes over my figure, belly slightly pronounced with the baby inside. In that reflection, I see someone who has survived so many storms and yet stands on the precipice of one more.

Will I be free? Or will tomorrow’s hearing invite a final ambush from the prosecution—some last-minute trick? Marcus has vanished from the public eye. No sign of him ceding gracefully. The city’s rumor mill says he’s gone mad in some secret den. If Trixa’s data truly nails him, he might lash out. A single thought crosses my mind: Is there any safe corner left for me, for Jacob, for Derek, or even for Trixa if she resurfaces?

My phone vibrates in my hand, the message from Margaret still open. I slide my thumb across it, re-reading the line: “Tomorrow’s hearing might set you free or spark Marcus’s final move.” My stomach flips as if I’m on a roller coaster at full speed.

Setting the phone aside, I rest my forehead against the cool glass. My heart hammers with the leftover adrenaline of the day, the nurse’s midnight update echoing in my ears: The logs are real. Jacob’s parents' death was pinned on me, but Trixa found the truth. She risked everything, including her own safety. I think of Derek, lying in that bed, shot while chasing those secrets. They all gave so much to save me from a false murder charge. If tomorrow ends in triumph, I owe them my entire future.

Breathing slowly, I recall the small flicker of movement Derek showed this morning. That memory helps me cling to positivity. The orchard meltdown almost claimed his life, but maybe he’s clawing his way back. My father nearly ruined me, but Trixa’s evidence might exonerate me. So many near-tragedies. So many near-salvations. Tomorrow is the tipping point.

I linger at the window for a while, letting the hush of late-night hospital activity lull me. A distant overhead page calls for a doctor on the third floor. Footsteps echo in the hall. My entire body is taut with tension, as if expecting the door to burst open with some new crisis. Yet no crisis comes. Just silence, occasionally broken by staff passing or the beep of a machine in a neighboring room.

Eventually, I rub my arms to banish the chill and maneuver the wheelchair back to my bed. Climbing in with the nurse’s help, I realize my limbs feel heavy, each muscle on the brink of collapse. Despite the exhaustion, my mind buzzes. The pillow is soft, but my heart is frantic. I yearn for Jacob’s comforting presence, though I suspect he’s dealing with last-minute calls. Or maybe he’s in the hallway, giving me space.

The clock on the wall reads 12:37 A.M. Another day has technically begun, and with it, the final countdown to the hearing. I wonder if the judge sleeps well tonight, or if she, too, senses the crackling energy in the air.

A stray tear slips free, rolling across my cheek before vanishing in the pillow. I think about the future: a child growing in my womb, hopefully born into freedom. A chance to walk out of Crestwood Hospital on my own two feet, no shackles, no guards, no forced returns to a jail cell. In that dream, Derek stands next to me, awake and smiling at how dramatic life became. Jacob holds my hand, calm and strong, guiding me into the next chapter where maybe we can just be normal people again.

But reality tugs me back. Marcus. The memory of him lingers like a bruise on my heart. There was a time I thought maybe he had some twisted fatherly affection, but he showed no mercy forging my name on sabotage evidence. Now, the world is turning against him, and men whisper that he’s unraveling in some hidden place. That fatherly facade I once believed in? Shattered. The man is a cornered animal. And cornered animals bite. Hard.

I shudder, pulling the blankets up to my chin, even though the air isn’t cold. The fear inside me is more chilling than any draft. If the sabotage logs truly damn him in court, what’s his next move? Would he try to kill me, or Jacob, or even threaten Derek again to keep me silent? My breath hitches at the thought. I push it away, focusing on the promise that tomorrow the judge sees the final forensics. Margaret said the judge is rarely swayed by theatrics, so if the evidence is bulletproof, the prosecution can’t salvage their frame job.

In the half-lit room, my eyes drift shut, though my mind refuses real rest. Even with sedation or pain meds, I suspect I’d still lie awake. My life is balanced on a razor’s edge—freedom or chaos. Trixa’s data is a beacon of hope, yet that same beacon might lure Marcus into a desperate last stand.

I exhale a shaky breath, pressing a hand to my belly. The baby’s movements are still subtle, flutters that come and go. But whenever I feel them, it’s like a reminder: Hold on, Mama. We’ll get through this. I cling to that idea, letting the tension in my shoulders ease just a fraction.

A noise at the door draws my attention. One of the night nurses stands there, an apologetic expression on her face. “I’m sorry, Ms. Thomas. Did I wake you?”

I force a small smile. “No, I’m awake.”

She hesitates, then steps forward. “Jacob Stone is in the hallway, finishing a call. He asked if you need anything.”

My chest warms at the mention of him. “Tell him I’m good,” I say softly. “He can come in if he wants.”

She nods, leaves. Moments later, I hear the quiet murmur of his voice in the corridor, finishing up something urgent. The warm sense of comfort seeps in again. I close my eyes briefly, grateful I’m not alone in this final stretch.

I let the hush settle. The beep of my heart monitor reminds me I’m alive, that tomorrow I might be vindicated. And if all goes well, I can face the public without shame. I’ll do it for Derek, for Trixa, for the baby, for Jacob, and maybe even for me.

Eventually, I hear the door open again. Footsteps approach, and Jacob’s gentle presence settles at my bedside. He brushes a kiss across my forehead, likely thinking I’m asleep. I want to open my eyes, but somehow, I feel safer in the quiet pretense of sleep. He exhales, a ragged sound, then sinks into the chair, lightly taking my hand in his. Neither of us speaks, but the room feels less haunted now.

As the clock ticks past 1 A.M., I drift into a half-doze, heart pounding with the knowledge that Trixa’s sabotage logs have been deemed legitimate, that the final hearing is mere hours away. The baby turns, and I rest a protective palm there, letting the swirl of fear and hope mix in my veins. No more illusions—tomorrow is real, the last stand for my innocence or the final push from Marcus.

If I let my mind stray to Derek’s faint neural sign, I feel a flicker of optimism. If I dwell on Marcus’s unraveling, I feel a chill. But I choose to cling to the positive: Trixa’s data is real, Derek might be slowly coming back, and Jacob is here. The rest is out of my hands, swirling in the unstoppable current of the future.

I settle deeper into the pillow, listening to Jacob’s quiet breathing. My father might prowl the shadows, but tomorrow, the truth is on my side. My eyes flutter shut. Let tomorrow come.