Chapter 7: Don't Wear It

Dorian was already in the hospital corridor when we got there, pacing with his phone in his fist.

The cardiac wing was bright and quiet, and a dozen families sat in the waiting area along the wall.

He saw me and came straight across.

"You," he said.

"How is he?"

"You did this. Your little scene, your walkout, your video. He hasn't slept since Saturday."

"I didn't put him in a hospital bed, Dorian."

"You put him there!"

His voice rang off the tiles.

Heads came up all along the waiting area.

"Lower your voice," Dermot said, stepping up beside me.

"Stay out of it. This is family."

"Lower your voice."

Dorian looked at the two of us, with me standing a half step behind Dermot's shoulder, and his face twisted.

"Two days," he said. "She's been under your roof for two days, and you're telling me to be quiet."

He swung at me.

It was a wide, open-handed swing, and I flinched.

Dermot caught his wrist in midair.

He turned Dorian into the wall with a flat smack of palm against plaster, and he held him there with one forearm across his shoulders.

"Don't," Dermot said.

"Get off me!"

"Don't ever put a hand near her again."

A nurse came around the desk at a run, and a security guard behind her.

"Sir, let him go," the guard said.

Dermot stepped back and raised both hands.

Dorian straightened his jacket, breathing hard, and pointed at me.

"That woman is mentally unwell," he said, loudly. "She's been making threats against my father. I want her removed from this floor."

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