Why Didn't You Wait for Me?**Daisy's POV**

After finishing the medical records, Nurse Anna, who was taking over the shift, had already arrived at her post.

As soon as I saw her, I knew my work hours for the day were over. I clocked out at the nurses' station, changed out of my work uniform, and headed toward Grandpa's hospital room.

Maria's words from noon had been gnawing at me all afternoon, filling me with an unease I couldn't shake. I pulled out my phone, fingers almost trembling as I typed into the Google search bar—the name Charles William.

I needed to prove her wrong. I needed to see for myself that it was all nonsense, that werewolves were just folklore, that I hadn't married some kind of monster.

The first few results showed nothing unusual. Just a few entries about the William family's business achievements, their philanthropic work, their standing in the community. I felt my shoulders relax slightly. See? Just a normal wealthy family. Maria was being ridiculous.

But I kept scrolling, almost compulsively now, as if I needed to exhaust every possible search result to fully convince myself.

That's when I saw it—a wolf head logo at the bottom of the page.

The unknown website was called "Do Werewolves Really Exist in the World?"

The site had only a few hundred views. My finger hovered over the link. I shouldn't click it. It was probably just some conspiracy theory nonsense, the kind of thing bored people made up for attention.

But I clicked anyway.

The first message displayed when the page opened made my breath catch—What kind of wolf is Charles William, the eldest son of the werewolf family?

I stopped walking entirely, my feet rooted to the hospital corridor floor.

[Werewolf Eldest Son of the William Family Born!]

[Shocking: Werewolf Cubs Are Also Born in Human Form!]

[Werewolf Mr. Charles Reveals: He Prefers Steak Over Drinking Human Blood.]

[Werewolf Charles William Inherits William Health Group.]

My hands started shaking.

Behind these entries were accompanying images. I clicked on the first one with trembling fingers—a photo of Charles's arm, light gray fur visible against his skin. Another showed his hand, nails that looked too thick, too sharp to be entirely human.

Then I saw the eye photo.

Vertical pupils. Golden-ringed. Reflecting light like an animal's eyes caught in headlights.

I had seen those eyes. In the church. When he turned his head and the afternoon sun hit his face at just the right angle. I had told myself it was a trick of the light, that I was imagining things because I was stressed about Grandpa.

But I hadn't imagined it.

My chest felt tight. The hallway seemed to tilt around me. I leaned against the wall, phone still clutched in my hand, screen glowing with those impossible images.

Grandpa knew. He had to have known. When he said "not an ordinary family"—this was what he meant.

He wanted me to marry a werewolf.

No. No, that couldn't be right. Grandpa loved me. He would never put me in danger. There had to be another explanation. These photos could be edited. People faked things online all the time. This was just some weird internet hoax, and I was letting my exhausted, grief-addled brain run wild with it.

I was about to close the browser, to force myself to think rationally, when the sharp alarm from Grandpa's room shattered the air.

My heart stopped.

For a moment I couldn't move, couldn't breathe, could only stare at that closed door as my brain struggled to process what that sound meant.

Then my training kicked in and I was running.

I shoved through the door to find nurses already swarming the bed. Someone had started chest compressions.

"Compressions started at 18:47," one nurse called out, eyes on her watch. "1, 2, 3, 4, 5..."

"Get the crash cart!"

"Charging to 200 joules."

I stood frozen in the doorway, my medical knowledge telling me exactly what was happening even as my heart refused to accept it. The nurse doing compressions had good form—proper hand placement, adequate depth, counting out loud to maintain rhythm. Another was bagging him, squeezing oxygen into his lungs between compression cycles.

"Clear!" The defibrillator charged with its distinctive whine.

Grandpa's body jerked with the shock. The monitor showed a brief chaotic rhythm, then flattened again into that terrible straight line.

"Resume compressions. Push one milligram epi."

"Epi going in. Time check—18:49."

I watched them work with the detached precision I'd seen a hundred times in other patients' rooms. Thirty compressions. Two breaths. Check rhythm. Shock if indicated. Epinephrine every three to five minutes. The algorithm I could recite in my sleep.

But this wasn't some other patient. This was Grandpa.

"Second shock. Charging. Clear!"

Another jolt. Another flat line.

The compressions continued. I could hear the nurse counting under her breath now, softer. "28, 29, 30..."

I knew what that meant. We all knew. The rhythm checks were getting longer. The pauses more hesitant.

"Time check—18:52. Third round of epi."

The senior nurse glanced toward the doorway and saw me. Her expression shifted—professional mask slipping just enough to show sympathy.

She knew I understood. Knew I could read the situation as well as she could.

The compressions slowed. Stopped.

"Time of death, 18:53."

Someone started to say, "We should notify—"

"I'm here." My voice came out hoarse, barely recognizable. "I'm here."

The nurses turned to look at me. I saw it in their faces—that particular expression of sympathy mixed with helplessness that healthcare workers give to colleagues who've just lost someone. I'd made that face myself countless times.

Now I was on the receiving end of it.

"Could you... give me a moment?" I managed. "Please."

They filed out quietly, one nurse squeezing my shoulder as she passed.

Then it was just me and Grandpa.

I walked to the bedside on legs that didn't feel like my own. His hand was still warm from all those compressions, but cooling already. I wrapped both of mine around it.

"Grandpa," I whispered. "I said I'd come by later. Why couldn't you wait for me?"

A tear slid down my cheek. I wiped it away roughly.

No. I couldn't cry. Grandpa hated seeing me cry. All these years together, what he loved most was my smile. I should smile for him now.

I tried. I really tried. But my face wouldn't cooperate, and I knew without a mirror that whatever expression I was making must look grotesque.

"I'm sorry, Grandpa," I said, letting the failed smile drop. "I can't do it. I can't smile right now. Please forgive me."

I stared at his peaceful face, my voice breaking. "If I hadn't brought that marriage certificate today... would you still be here?"

The tears came harder now, and I didn't try to stop them.

But I couldn't fall apart. Not yet. There were things to do—practical things that needed handling. I could grieve later. Right now, Grandpa needed me to be strong.

I went to the bathroom and filled a basin with water, then returned to carefully wash him, working with the same gentle efficiency I'd use with any patient. I combed his hair until it lay neat and smooth, not a strand out of place.

Then I went to the cabinet to find clean clothes for him.

At the very bottom, underneath the hospital gowns and spare blankets, I found the suit. The one I'd given him for his birthday this year.

My hands stilled on the fabric.

I had wanted him to wear it that day. He'd refused, insisting with that stubborn smile that he was saving it for "a special occasion." I thought he'd left it at home.

He'd brought it to the hospital. He'd been planning for this.

I pressed my lips together hard, fighting down the sob building in my chest, and carefully dressed him in the suit.

My phone rang. Grandpa's assistant.

"Miss Daisy, I received the notification from the hospital. Should I inform... your father now?"

This assistant would become mine after Grandpa's death. His question was perfectly reasonable, perfectly professional.

I looked at Grandpa's face, peaceful now in the suit I bought for his birthday.

"No," I said quietly. "Let Grandpa have tonight in peace. I'll stay with him."

Grandpa wouldn't have wanted to see that man. His son in blood only, never in any way that mattered. I couldn't prevent him from coming to the funeral—he was Grandpa's only child, after all—but I didn't have to summon him to this bedside.

The word "father" had been absent from my life so long it no longer attached to any face in my memory.

"Understood, Miss Daisy. I'll handle the funeral arrangements."

"Thank you."

The call ended. The room fell silent again.

Now I was truly alone.

The realization hit like a physical weight. No moon showed through the window, only heavy clouds rolling in. Lightning flashed occasionally, briefly illuminating the room, but I didn't reach for the light switch.

I couldn't. If I turned on the lights, I wouldn't be able to hide anymore. My grief would be exposed, laid bare.

Thunder rumbled across the sky. My body shook with it.

When I was small, I was terrified of thunder. Grandpa would pull me into his arms, pat my shoulder, whisper that I was safe, that he'd protect me.

I wasn't afraid of thunder anymore. I'd grown up.

But the person who would hold me and promise safety was gone.

I found myself thinking—if I told him right now that I was scared, would he pull me close one more time?

My phone rang again, jarring me from the thought.

I looked down at the screen.

It was...