The Alchemist of Broken Dreams by Sienna Rose Blackwell 53

DYLAN 

I hate being shut out. It’s one of the few things that can unnerve me faster than anything else, and right now, that feeling was eating me alive. The article Beckett sent had practically laid everything bare–every question that had been haunting me since this morning suddenly had answers I never asked for. Answers I didn’t want. 

But even with the truth staring me in the face, some stubborn, aching part of me refused to accept it. I wanted to hear it from Hunter himself. I wanted to believe that there was some reasonable explanation, something I just didn’t know yet. 

I wanted to give him a chance. 

I wanted to trust him. 

I hate to think that he already betrayed me even before I had the chance to admit my feelings for him. 

I pressed my back against the wall and listened. I need to find a way to escape this place. If Hunter won’t come here to give me answers, then I’m coming for him. 

I clutched my stomach and let out a sharp, desperate cry, loud enough to echo off the hotel room walls. I dropped to my knees beside the bed, curling forward as if pain had ripped straight through me. 

It didn’t take long. The guards stationed outside burst through the door, panic tightening their faces. 

“Madam, what’s wrong?” one of them asked, rushing toward me. 

“I–I don’t know,” I gasped, forcing my voice to tremble. “It hurts. My stomach… I think something’s really wrong. I need to go to the hospital.” 

They exchanged worried looks. That was all I needed. 

Within minutes, two more guards arrived. One lifted me gently, helping me stand while the others spoke hurriedly over their radios about an emergency transport. 

They guided me through the hallway, moving fast, their focus fully on my supposed pain. I kept one hand pressed to my abdomen, breathing in short, shaky bursts. 

When we reached the lobby, a car was already waiting. They helped me inside, one guard sitting beside me while two more climbed into the front seats. 

Perfect. 

The moment the car pulled away from the hotel, I leaned forward, clutching my stomach again. “Please hurry,” I whispered. “It’s getting worse.” 

The guards urged the driver to go faster. Their attention stayed glued on me–exactly how I needed it. 

When we reached a busy intersection near the hospital, I made my move. I lurched sideways suddenly, grabbing the guard