Chapter 8: Accidents and Meddling Paparazzi
“Somebody help!” I screamed into the dark, my voice splitting with panic.
I dropped to my knees beside Mom, cradling her blood-slicked body against my chest. Her breathing was shallow, her skin clammy.
“Mum, please... stay with me. Don’t leave me, not now,” I whispered, stroking her face. Her lips parted.
“Mar—la…” she tried to say.
But her voice faltered.
And her body went limp in my arms.
I choked on a sob and gathered her up, all trembling limbs and desperation. Her weight was light—too light—as I carried her through the quiet street like a girl running from a nightmare.
I flagged down the first cab I could.
“Hospital!” I shouted, barely managing to set her gently in the back seat before climbing in beside her. I held her hand the entire ride, whispering, “Please… don’t leave me. I need you. I need you.”
---
“What happened to her?” I asked, nearly lunging at the doctor when he finally returned.
“She suffered a severe domestic fall,” he explained. “A traumatic head injury. Her skull cracked in a way that nearly impacted the brainstem.”
My heart dropped.
“And?” I pushed.
“She survived. She’s stable. But the recovery will be slow. There’s a high chance of residual symptoms—memory gaps, speech complications. Possibly dyslexia. But considering the damage, this is… promising.”
Relief dropped through me like a stone. “She’s alive?”
He nodded. “She’s unconscious for now, but she’s holding on. You can stay, if you like.”
“I’m not leaving,” I said firmly. “She’s all I have.”
---
Tessa burst into the hospital room the next day, still breathless from rushing in.
“What happened? I got here as fast as I could!”
“She collapsed,” I murmured. “Head trauma. There was blood everywhere. And I wasn’t there—I should’ve been there.”
“No, Marla,” she said, gripping my hand tightly. “You were out working for both of you. This isn’t your fault.”
I wiped my face, which was already wet with tears. “I just want her to be okay again.”
“She will be. She’s tough. Like you.”
---
Two weeks passed.
Mom woke up. Just like the doctor predicted, she didn’t remember what had happened. But she remembered me.
That was all I needed.
Today, we were finally moving into the new apartment Pink Moda had arranged. Margaret had called it “an essential relocation for privacy and brand protection.” I just called it a miracle.
Our previous home could never offer this kind of security—not after the fame, the attention. Not after the press started using words like It Girl.
“Is everything packed?” I asked one of the movers Margaret hired.
“Yes, Miss Quinn. All loaded.”
I went inside to collect Mom.
“Let’s go,” I said softly.
She smiled, still tired from recovery, but she was stronger. And seeing her better, even a little, gave me hope I hadn’t dared reach for since the night I found her on the floor.
The new house looked like something from a design magazine—white walls, abstract art, glass light fixtures, too many rooms to name. I led her on a small tour.
“This is the kitchen. Bigger than our whole apartment, right?”
She laughed, light and real. “It’s beautiful.”
“Oh, just wait.” I took her down a hallway to a sunlit corner room. “This is your new bedroom.”
Her jaw dropped. She pressed her hands to her cheeks. “Marla... this is... I love it.”
I smiled. “We’re just getting started.”
Then I opened the final door. “And this... is your knitting nook.”
It was a small alcove with custom shelving, cozy lighting, and a bay window seat that overlooked a garden.
Tears welled in her eyes. “You remembered.”
“Of course I did,” I said, hugging her. “You deserve something just for you.”
We held each other for a while. No words. Just the sound of breathing, and gratitude.
---
I arrived at Pink Moda in a cab, slightly late, still trying to shake off the guilt of leaving Mom—even just for the day.
The second my heel hit the pavement, it happened.
Flashes. Voices. A wave of chaos.
Paparazzi. Everywhere.
“Miss Nikki! Miss Nikki!”
“Is it true you're dating Cassian Locke?”
“Are you moving in together? Are you getting married?”
“How did it all start?”
I stumbled back, blinded by flashbulbs. The sidewalk felt like it was closing in around me. My vision blurred, my heart raced. I hated crowds. Feared them, really. A long-buried childhood trauma clawed its way back to the surface.
I couldn’t breathe.
Just as I thought I might faint, a familiar scent—clean, woodsy, expensive—washed over me.
A strong arm wrapped around my waist.
The noise stopped meaning anything.
Cassian.
Of course.
“He came to protect her!” one paparazzo said.
“God, he’s hot,” someone muttered.
“That’s real love,” another added, melting.
And then the unthinkable happened.
“Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!” the chant began.
“No way,” I muttered under my breath, eyes wide.
“Kiss! Kiss! KISS!”
I turned to him, begging him with my eyes.
Don’t do it.
But his expression didn’t change.
Cassian Locke leaned in—
—and kissed me.
His lips were warm. Confident. Controlled.
The world blurred behind my eyelids.
I should’ve pushed him away.
Instead, my fingers curled around his lapel.
Too late now.
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