The grand high-ceilinged hallways of the hospital felt colder than the gala. Julian walked with his arm firmly around Amara, his expression etched with a mix of exhaustion and overprotective vigilance.
"I don't know, Julian. I'm really OK. It's just tiredness," Amara murmured, leaning her head against his shoulder. "Whatever you say... but I think I just need a long sleep."
"The doctor said your vitals were spiked after the incident," Julian insisted, his voice low and firm. "Tiredness is one thing, but a collapse is another. I'm not taking any chances with you."
As they turned the corner toward the exit, a distraught wail echoed through the surgical waiting area. A woman sat crumpled on a plastic chair, Mrs. Creed, the once-haughty matriarch who had lived a life of untouchable luxury. Now, her designer clothes were wrinkled, and her face was a mask of sheer desperation.
