Chapter 4 - THE MAN WHO WASN'T SUPPOSED TO CARE|
The first thing I noticed when I woke was the sound of someone breathing beside my hospital bed.
Not a nurse.
Not a doctor.
Someone sitting quietly in the darkness.
I opened my eyes and saw a man near the window.
He was broader than I'd imagined, dressed entirely in black, with dark hair that looked as though he'd spent hours running his fingers through it.
His sleeves were rolled to his forearms.
Black-and-gray tattoos covered his skin.
For several seconds, I wondered whether I was dreaming.
Then he turned.
“Amelia.”
I recognized his voice immediately.
“Lucian?”
He stood.
“I didn't mean to wake you.”
I looked from his face to the chair beside my bed.
“You're really here.”
“Yes.”
“You look different from your photograph.”
His eyebrows lifted.
“Better or worse?”
“More tired.”
A faint smile touched his mouth.
“That's fair.”
He approached the bed but stopped several feet away.
Even exhausted, I noticed the deliberate distance.
He was giving me room to decide whether I wanted him closer.
“You can sit,” I said.
He pulled the chair forward.
I studied his face while he settled beside me.
There was a small scar beneath his left eyebrow.
His eyes were almost black.
Nothing about him suggested the sort of man who delivered pancakes to frightened strangers.
And yet there he was.
“Why did you come?” I asked.
“Because you said you were scared.”
Something tightened in my throat.
People had said they cared about me before.
They'd sent cards and flowers.
They'd promised to visit when work slowed down.
But this man had crossed Manhattan in the rain because of three whispered words.
“That's not a very good reason,” I said.
“It's the only one I needed.”
I looked away before he could see the tears gathering in my eyes.
A nurse entered and checked the monitor beside me.
She seemed surprised to find Lucian sitting quietly in the corner.
“Miss Carter, your blood pressure is improving.”
“Does that mean I can go home?”
“We need your medical team to review the results.”
She adjusted my blanket.
“Try to rest.”
After she left, I stared at Lucian.
“Did you frighten the hospital staff?”
“No.”
“Lucian.”
“I was extremely polite.”
“That's suspicious.”
“I even said please.”
I smiled despite myself.
He looked pleased, as though making me smile had become the evening's most important accomplishment.
Then his expression grew serious.
“Amelia, I need to ask you something.”
I nodded.
“Who gave you the prognosis?”
“Dr. Voss.”
“Nathaniel Voss?”
I stared at him.
“How do you know?”
He leaned back slowly.
“I knew him years ago.”
“Is that supposed to mean something?”
“Possibly.”
I felt a familiar exhaustion settle over me.
“I don't want another mystery.”
“I know.”
“I've spent years being poked, scanned, tested, and told things nobody could explain.”
He waited.
“If you know something about my doctor, please don't make me guess.”
Lucian folded his hands.
His tattoos moved beneath the hospital light.
“My sister was treated by Dr. Voss.”
I sat straighter.
“The sister you told me about?”
“Yes.”
“What happened to her?”
He looked toward the window.
For a moment, the powerful man beside me seemed to disappear.
In his place sat someone who had spent years carrying an unbearable memory.
“Sofia was twenty-four,” he said.
“She was studying architecture at Columbia.”
“She wanted to design public libraries.”
I imagined a young woman with books under her arm and blueprints scattered across a desk.
“She sounds wonderful.”
“She was.”
“What was wrong with her?”
“A rare immune disorder.”
His voice became quieter.
“She'd been sick for years, but she was stable until a new treatment was recommended.”
“By Dr. Voss?”
“Yes.”
I waited.
Lucian's jaw tightened.
“Her condition deteriorated quickly.”
“I'm sorry.”
“I wanted a second opinion.”
“Did she get one?”
“No.”
He stared at his hands.
“By the time I understood how serious things had become, she was gone.”
I didn't know what to say.
There are moments when sympathy feels too small for the space it needs to fill.
This was one of them.
Finally, I reached across the blanket.
My fingers touched his wrist.
He went still.
“You loved her.”
“More than anything.”
“Then she knew.”
His eyes lifted to mine.
“How can you be sure?”
“Because people who are loved that much usually know.”
He looked at my hand resting against his tattooed skin.
Then he turned his wrist slightly and covered my fingers with his.
His palm was warm.
“Do you have family?” he asked.
The question caught me off guard.
“My mother lives in Connecticut.”
“Does she know?”
“Not yet.”
“What about your father?”
“He left when I was sixteen.”
“I'm sorry.”
“Don't be.”
I looked at the IV line taped to my hand.
“Some people leave because they're selfish.”
“Others leave because they can't handle watching someone hurt.”
Lucian studied me.
“Which was it?”
“With my father?”
I shook my head.
“Both.”
He didn't press.
I was grateful.
For years, people had treated my history like a puzzle they were entitled to solve.
Lucian seemed content to let the missing pieces remain missing.
A soft knock interrupted us.
Marco appeared in the doorway.
He was tall, with closely cropped hair and the expression of a man who slept with one eye open.
“Mr. Moretti.”
Lucian released my hand.
“What is it?”
Marco glanced at me.
“There's something you should see.”
Lucian stood.
“Excuse me.”
I watched the two men step into the hallway.
Through the narrow gap in the door, I could see Marco showing him something on a phone.
Lucian's expression hardened.
He spoke so softly I couldn't hear the words.
Then Marco disappeared.
When Lucian returned, I knew something had changed.
“What happened?”
“Nothing you need to worry about tonight.”
I frowned.
“That is exactly what people say when there's something to worry about.”
He sat down.
“You're right.”
“Then tell me.”
He hesitated.
“The man who threatened you may have been connected to your doctor.”
My stomach tightened.
“Dr. Voss?”
“We're trying to establish what happened.”
“Why would a doctor threaten me?”
“I don't know.”
I looked toward the hallway.
“Lucian, are you saying my illness isn't real?”
“No.”
He leaned forward.
“I'm saying your medical care deserves an independent review.”
I stared at him.
For three years, my life had revolved around a complicated medical diagnosis that few people understood.
A rare autoimmune condition had affected my blood vessels and several organs.
I'd endured treatments that made my hair fall out.
I'd spent birthdays in hospital beds.
My arms carried bruises from needles and scars from procedures.
Nothing about the illness had been imaginary.
“I know I'm sick,” I said.
“I believe you.”
“Then don't give me false hope.”
His face changed.
“I wouldn't do that.”
“People have been telling me to stay positive for years.”
My voice trembled.
“Sometimes I just need someone to admit that terrible things happen.”
Lucian nodded slowly.
“Terrible things happen.”
A tear slid down my cheek.
“And sometimes they don't get fixed.”
“No,” he said.
“Sometimes they don't.”
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then he added, “But you deserve to know whether every possible treatment has been considered.”
I looked at him.
“What if another doctor says the same thing?”
“Then we'll believe the evidence.”
“And if there really are only seven days?”
His eyes met mine.
“Then we make them yours.”
I felt something inside me loosen.
Not hope exactly.
Something smaller and steadier.
The possibility that I might still have choices.
“There's something I want to do tomorrow,” I whispered.
“What?”
“Go to the ocean.”
He blinked.
“In October?”
“Yes.”
“It'll be freezing.”
“I didn't say I wanted to swim.”
A smile appeared.
“Which ocean?”
“The Atlantic.”
“That's still a fairly large destination.”
“Somewhere quiet.”
“Long Island?”
“Maybe.”
I watched his expression.
“You're not going to tell me it's impossible?”
“No.”
“Or that I should conserve my energy?”
“Your doctors can tell us what travel is safe.”
“And if they say yes?”
“Then we go.”
I stared at him.
“We?”
He seemed to realize what he'd said.
“Only if you want company.”
I thought of the unfinished painting waiting beside my apartment window.
I'd painted an ocean I'd never seen.
I'd copied the colors from an old postcard because traveling had always seemed like something I could do later.
“Why would you spend a day at the beach with me?” I asked.
Lucian looked at my pale hands.
Then he looked at my face.
“Because you want to go.”
It was such a simple answer.
For reasons I couldn't explain, it made me cry.
He handed me a tissue without making a fuss.
I wiped my cheeks.
“You're ruining your reputation.”
“Apparently.”
“People are supposed to be terrified of you.”
“They usually are.”
“I'm not sure I am.”
His expression softened.
“Good.”
That night, after the doctors approved a carefully supervised short outing if my condition remained stable, Lucian arranged transportation for the following afternoon.
A specialist agreed to review my medical records independently.
I fell asleep imagining waves rolling onto an empty beach.
What I didn't know was that while I slept, Dr. Nathaniel Voss was sitting in his private office, staring at a photograph taken inside my hospital room.
The picture showed Lucian holding my hand.
Voss placed a call.
“She wasn't supposed to meet him,” he said.
A man's voice answered.
“Then make sure she never learns why her number was saved in his phone.”
Dr. Voss closed his eyes.
“And if Moretti starts asking questions?”
May you like
The voice turned cold.
“Then the girl doesn't get seven days.”
