3 Years as Your Backup Wife, 1 Text to Crash Your World: 'Guess Which Twin Left?' - Chapter 92: Chapter 92

Harper froze at the sight of the car barreling toward her, her brain short-circuiting in that primal way that happens when danger comes too fast to process.
Tyler and Dylan both spotted the vehicle simultaneously, lunging toward her with identical expressions of horror.
"Harper, MOVE!" Tyler shouted, reaching her first and grabbing her arm.
He yanked her sideways with all his strength, but the car was moving too fast. It clipped them both, sending them tumbling across the concrete entrance of the mall.
Tyler instinctively wrapped himself around Harper as they rolled, his body absorbing the impact. They crashed to a stop against a light pole, Harper's head striking the metal base with a sickening thud.
Despite the white-hot pain shooting through his leg and the road rash burning his arm, Tyler immediately focused on Harper. Blood was seeping from a gash on her temple, her eyes closed.
"Someone call 911!" he yelled at the growing crowd of shocked shoppers. "NOW!"
Dylan sprinted over, reaching for Harper, but Tyler shoved him back with his good arm.
"Maybe check on your psycho ex!" Tyler snarled through clenched teeth. "She's the one driving!"
In that chaotic split second, Tyler had seen the driver clearly—Ruby's mascara-streaked face behind the wheel, her expression a mask of rage.
Dylan whipped around toward the wrecked car, now crumpled against a concrete planter. Through the cloud of deployed airbags, he could see Ruby slumped forward, the engine hissing ominously.
He raced to the car and wrenched the door open, dragging Ruby out before the vehicle could catch fire. Her forehead was gashed open, blood trickling down her face as she mumbled incoherently.
Despite her injuries, Dylan dropped her unceremoniously on the pavement, shock giving way to blind fury.
"You've lost your goddamn mind!" he roared, hands shaking. "If anything happens to her, I swear to Christ—"
The wail of sirens cut through the air as emergency vehicles flooded the scene.
When Harper regained consciousness, she blinked up at the sterile hospital ceiling tiles, momentarily unable to place herself. Then reality crashed back, and she bolted upright—or tried to.
A nurse gently pressed her back down. "Whoa there. You need to stay horizontal for now."
"Tyler," Harper gasped, clutching the nurse's scrubs. "Where is he? Is he okay?"
The nurse patted her hand reassuringly. "Your boyfriend's next door getting his leg set."
"How bad is it?" Harper's voice cracked, tears threatening. "Just tell me straight."
"Broken tibia, some nasty cuts and bruises, but nothing life-threatening. He'll be hobbling around on crutches for a while, but he'll be fine."
The clinical reassurance wasn't enough. Harper needed to see him with her own eyes. She struggled against the nurse's restraining hands.
"I need to see him. Right now."
Their standoff was interrupted when the door swung open, revealing Tyler being wheeled in by an orderly, his leg encased in a pristine white cast and angry red scrapes covering his left arm.
Harper's composure crumbled instantly. "Oh my god," she choked out.
Tyler maneuvered his wheelchair closer, taking her hand. "Hey, don't do that. I'm fine. You're the one with the hard head," he teased gently, his voice softening. "Doc says you've got a mild concussion. You need to rest and not get worked up."
He squeezed her fingers, his presence calming her racing heart.
"Harper!"
The door burst open as Dylan appeared, arms loaded with gift bags stuffed with expensive-looking health supplements, imported fruit, and what appeared to be high-end herbal teas. His face was a mask of guilt and concern.
Both Harper and Tyler's expressions hardened simultaneously.
"Get the hell out," Harper snapped, her voice razor-sharp.
Dylan set the bags down, palms raised defensively. "I had no idea what Ruby was planning. I swear to god, I never thought she'd—"
Harper didn't let him finish. She snatched one of the heavy gift bags and hurled it directly at his face with surprising accuracy for someone with a head injury.
Dylan didn't even flinch as it crashed against his chest, expensive supplements tumbling to the floor.
"If throwing things at me helps, go for it," he said quietly. "I deserve worse."
Harper let out a harsh, incredulous laugh. "Are you fucking kidding me right now? You think playing human punching bag gets you off the hook? You think your pathetic martyr act and overpriced gifts cancel out seven years of absolute garbage treatment?"