Damien sat slumped in the plastic visitor's chair, his face buried against Aria's pale, limp hand, playing the role of the shattered, grieving husband with Oscar-worthy perfection.
The burly paparazzo with the neck tattoo leaned over and nudged Zoe hard in the ribs.
"Hey," the paparazzo whispered out of the corner of his mouth. "Are you getting all this?"
Zoe rolled her eyes so hard. "I am literally pointing a glowing rectangular lens directly at his face. Yes, Brad, I am getting this."
Hearing the whispering, Damien's head snapped up.
His golden eyes, usually sharp and terrifying, were wild and bloodshot. He glared at the small crowd standing at the foot of the bed, his chest heaving with fabricated panic.
"She's going to be okay," Damien barked, his voice cracking with delusional, desperate denial. "She's strong. She's fighting it. Do not write her off! She is going to wake up!"
