My Fiancé Chose the Girl Who Put Me in a Coma

The last thing I saw before the dark was my wedding dress turning red.

Five years before that, an earthquake split the Hudson Valley open. Sebastian Vale and I found Delilah Monroe in a shelter gym, seventeen and shaking, her whole family buried under one collapsed roof.

"We'll pay for school," I told her. "Whatever you need."

"Why would you do that?" she whispered.

"Because you shouldn't have to do this alone."

I meant it. I sat with her through the nightmares. I called her my little sister. I asked her to be my maid of honor.

I didn't notice when the late-night calls stopped coming to me.

"It's Delilah again," Sebastian would say, already reaching for his coat at one in the morning. "She says I'm the only one who can calm her down."

"Then go," I'd tell him. And he went.

---

On our wedding day, she ran down the aisle in pale pink chiffon, mascara streaking her face.

"You said you'd always be there!" Her voice cracked across two hundred guests. "Is that over now? Because you're married?"

Sebastian stepped off the altar. "Lila. Hey. Look at me. Nothing's over."

"Delilah, sweetheart." I touched her elbow. "Let's go talk outside."

"Don't *touch* me!"

She jerked back, right into the iron lighting rig by the front pews. The venue had warned us about it. Aftershock damage. A cracked base.

Metal groaned.

Sebastian wrapped himself around Delilah without a second thought. But the rig wasn't falling toward her.

It was falling toward his head.

I didn't decide anything. My body moved. I hit his back with both hands and shoved.

The crash sounded like the earth breaking again.

Warm wetness spread under my cheek. White silk drank it in.

"Evelyn!" Sebastian was on his knees, his hands everywhere. "Evelyn, stay with me! *Stay with me!*"

I tried to.

---

"Ms. Hart? Can you hear me?"

The ceiling was too bright. My arm lay on the blanket like something borrowed, thin as a broom handle, the skin stretched over bone.

A nurse leaned over me. Her badge read *TASHA*.

"You're at Lenox Neuro Recovery in Manhattan," she said gently. "You've been asleep a long time, honey."

My throat felt full of sand. "Where's..." I swallowed. "Se... bastian?"

She and the doctor traded a glance. Dr. Okafor, gray-haired and tired-eyed, pulled out his phone.

He called once. Twice. By the fifth call, he wasn't looking at me anymore.

"He's on his way," he finally said.

"How long..." I pushed the words out. "How long was I gone?"

"Five years, Ms. Hart."

---

The door opened an hour later.

The man in the doorway wore a charcoal suit that probably cost more than my first car. Gold-rimmed glasses covered the eyes I remembered burning. His face was smooth and calm. A stranger's face.

Then he said my name, and it cracked down the middle.

"Evelyn."

I forced my elbows into the mattress and lifted my trembling hand toward him. I smiled. It hurt.

"I came back."

His eyes went red. He crossed the room in three strides and caught my fingers in both his hands. He leaned in, arms opening—

And stopped.

He hovered there, inches away, like a man who'd forgotten how to hold something.

"Sebastian?"

"I'm here," he said hoarsely. "I just... I'm here."

The door banged open again.

Delilah rushed in wearing a cream wool coat with gold buttons, her hair glossy, her nails done. She dropped to her knees beside my bed.

"Evie, it's my fault." Tears came instantly, beautifully. "All of it. If I hadn't ruined everything, you wouldn't have lost five years. I'm so sorry. I'm so, *so* sorry."

I opened my mouth.

Sebastian was already bending down. He hooked a hand under her arm and lifted her up, his thumb brushing her cheek as if he'd done it a thousand times.

"Stop," he murmured. "We've talked about this. You don't get to carry that."

She leaned into his chest for half a second. Then she grabbed my hand and squeezed hard.

"I prayed every single day for you to wake up."

Her grip crushed the bruise where my IV had been. Pain flashed up my arm, and I pulled away.

Sebastian's jaw hardened.

"She's been blaming herself for five years," he said. "Don't make her feel worse."

I stared at him.

I was the one in the bed. I was the one who couldn't lift a cup of water.

And then, of all things, I laughed. A small, broken sound.

"Okay," I said. "Okay, Sebastian."

He frowned like I'd spoken another language.

---

Four days later, they cleared me for outpatient therapy.

Sebastian pulled up in a brand-new black Mercedes. Before I could reach for the front door, Delilah slid past me and dropped into the passenger seat.

"You don't mind, right, Evie?" She was already pushing the seat back, tapping her phone into the dashboard. "I get so carsick in the back. Seb knows."

"I know," Sebastian said.

I folded myself into the back seat without a word.

He leaned across her and pulled her seatbelt down, clicking it in place. Five years ago, he'd done that for me. He used to joke I'd forget my own head.

The car smelled like white tea. Her perfume. Her playlist filled the speakers, some soft indie song I'd never heard.

From the rearview mirror dangled a little brass Eiffel Tower.

Delilah flicked it with one finger. "Remember that rainy day by the Seine? You let me pick the souvenir."

"You picked the ugliest one in the shop," he said, and the corner of his mouth lifted.

I watched that tiny brass tower swing back and forth all the way to Brooklyn.

---

He parked outside our townhouse. The one we'd bought together the month before the wedding.

"I moved to Manhattan," he said, not quite meeting my eyes. "I couldn't stay here. Every room was you."

"So you left it."

"Once you're stronger, I'll bring you over. I promise."

Delilah rolled her window down. "Call if you need anything, Evie!"

Then they drove away.

I turned the key.

Everything was exactly where I'd left it. The gray couch. The blue vase on the dining table, holding dead stems gone brown and papery. Our engagement photo on the wall, both of us laughing at something off camera.

It looked like a museum. A shrine.

I opened the fridge. Dark. Silent. Unplugged.

Upstairs, I slid the closet door open. My dresses hung on one side. His side was bare wood and empty hangers.

I sat on the edge of the bed. The night before the wedding, he'd held me right here, his chin on my head.

"This will always be our home," he'd said.

---

At two in the morning, I woke up screaming.

Twisted metal. Pink chiffon. Blood soaking into white.

My nightgown clung to my back with cold sweat. I fumbled for the phone and called him.

It rang. And rang. And rang.

Finally, a click. A thick, sleepy voice.

"Evelyn?"

"Where are you?" My voice shook. "Sebastian, where are you right now?"

A sigh. Sheets rustling.

"I'm home, Evelyn. What's wrong?"

I looked around the dark bedroom. At his empty pillow. At the cold, unused half of the bed.

The tears finally came.

"Sebastian," I whispered, "which home are you talking about?"

On the other end of the line, very faintly, a woman's voice murmured his name.