Chapter 10 - THE OFFER I WAS NEVER SUPPOSED TO HEAR|
“No.”
Lucian spoke before Marco finished explaining.
His voice was so cold that the room seemed to grow still around him.
“Absolutely not.”
I looked between the two men.
“What does Adrian Bell want with me?”
Marco didn't answer.
Lucian reached for his phone.
“Tell whoever delivered that message the answer is no.”
I stepped forward.
“Lucian.”
He ignored me.
“Any future communication goes through law enforcement and our attorneys.”
“Lucian.”
He ended the call.
Then he turned.
“What?”
I folded my arms.
“You're doing it again.”
“Doing what?”
“Deciding what happens to me without asking.”
His expression softened, but only slightly.
“I'm not allowing you to become part of a criminal exchange.”
“I'm not asking to be.”
“Then what are you asking?”
“The truth.”
He stared at me.
I took another step toward him.
“Someone wants me.”
“Why?”
Marco cleared his throat.
“We have a theory.”
Lucian shot him a warning look.
I turned toward Marco.
“Tell me.”
He hesitated.
Then he said, “Bell may believe Miss Carter has access to information he can't afford to lose.”
I frowned.
“The flash drive?”
“Possibly.”
“But we already have it.”
“Bell may not know what's on it or who else has copies.”
I looked at the television screen.
The final image of Dr. Voss was still frozen there.
Suddenly, I understood.
“He doesn't want me.”
Lucian looked at me.
“He wants to know what I know.”
Marco nodded.
“That would be consistent with the threats.”
My stomach tightened.
“So if I disappear, he thinks the evidence disappears with me.”
Lucian's expression turned grim.
“He may.”
I looked down at my hands.
For years, I'd felt invisible.
I'd walked through grocery stores and subway stations wondering whether people could tell I was sick.
I'd watched friends build families while I spent afternoons waiting for blood test results.
Now someone dangerous was paying attention to me for all the wrong reasons.
It was a cruel kind of irony.
I had finally become important to somebody.
And that somebody might want me dead.
“I need air,” I whispered.
Lucian moved toward the window.
“I'll open it.”
“No.”
I looked at him.
“I need to go outside.”
He glanced at the clock.
It was nearly midnight.
“Your doctors advised rest.”
“I know.”
“And you had a difficult day.”
“I know.”
He hesitated.
I lifted my chin.
“Are you going to stop me?”
For a moment, I saw the instinct to control everything rise behind his eyes.
Then he stepped aside.
“No.”
I took my coat from the chair.
He followed me toward the door.
“May I come?”
I looked at him.
That small question changed something.
He wasn't ordering.
He wasn't assuming.
He was asking.
“Yes,” I said.
We went up to the building's rooftop terrace.
Marco arranged for security to remain at a respectful distance.
The October wind was cold, and the Manhattan skyline stretched around us like a sea of electric stars.
I leaned against the railing.
Lucian stood beside me.
For several minutes, neither of us spoke.
Then I asked, “Why did you really answer my message?”
He looked toward the city.
“I told you.”
“Your sister?”
“Yes.”
“That can't be the whole reason.”
He was silent.
I turned toward him.
“Lucian.”
He exhaled.
“Eleven years ago, Sofia called me from the hospital.”
I waited.
“She wanted me to come sit with her.”
“Where were you?”
“In a meeting.”
He looked down.
“I told her I'd be there after it ended.”
My chest tightened.
“Did you go?”
“Yes.”
His voice became rough.
“But she was unconscious by the time I arrived.”
I stared at him.
“She never woke up.”
He looked at the skyline.
“I've spent eleven years wondering whether she knew I was coming.”
I reached for his hand.
He continued.
“When your message appeared, I thought of her.”
“I thought about the call I should have answered differently.”
I squeezed his fingers.
“So you answered mine.”
“Yes.”
The wind moved through my scarf.
“But you didn't know me.”
“No.”
“You could have ignored it.”
“Yes.”
I looked at him.
“Why didn't you?”
He turned toward me.
“Because nobody should have to tell a stranger they're dying just to be heard.”
My throat tightened.
For a moment, I couldn't speak.
Then I whispered, “I wish I'd met you before I got sick.”
He looked at me.
“Why?”
“Because maybe you would have known me when I was different.”
His brow furrowed.
“Different how?”
“Before the medications.”
“Before the hospital visits.”
“Before I got tired walking up stairs.”
I looked down.
“Before I looked like this.”
Lucian moved closer.
“Amelia.”
I shook my head.
“You don't have to say anything nice.”
“I'm not going to flatter you.”
“Good.”
“I'm going to tell you what I see.”
I lifted my eyes.
He looked directly at me.
“I see a woman who was handed terrifying news and still found a way to laugh at a man standing barefoot in the Atlantic.”
I smiled faintly.
“I see someone who loves painting, terrible diner coffee, and people she hasn't quite forgiven.”
My eyes filled.
“I see someone who keeps reaching for life even when she's afraid.”
He paused.
“And I think you're beautiful.”
I stared at him.
The city noise seemed to fade.
“Lucian.”
“You don't have to say anything.”
I looked at his face.
At the scar above his eyebrow.
At the shadows beneath his eyes.
At the man who had spent years convincing the world he couldn't be hurt.
Then I did something completely unreasonable.
I stepped closer.
His breath caught.
“Amelia?”
I looked at his mouth.
Then I looked into his eyes.
“Can I kiss you?”
He went completely still.
For a moment, I thought he might refuse.
Then he lifted one hand and gently touched my cheek.
“Yes.”
The kiss was soft.
Careful.
Almost uncertain.
Nothing like the desperate scenes I'd imagined when I was younger.
It was two people standing beneath a cold sky, knowing that tomorrow might bring terrible news.
And choosing one beautiful moment anyway.
When we separated, I rested my forehead against his chest.
“I don't want you to feel sorry for me,” I whispered.
His arms tightened gently around me.
“I don't.”
“Then what do you feel?”
He was silent for so long that I almost looked up.
Finally, he said, “Something I haven't allowed myself to feel in years.”
I closed my eyes.
For one wonderful moment, I let myself believe there might be a future.
Then my phone vibrated.
I nearly ignored it.
But the screen displayed a message from Dr. Evelyn Hart.
Her office had received the preliminary records.
She wanted me admitted the following morning for urgent reassessment.
The message was direct.
The findings suggested a serious condition requiring immediate evaluation, but there were questions about the assumptions behind my seven-day prognosis.
I read it twice.
Lucian watched my face.
“What is it?”
I handed him the phone.
He read the message carefully.
Then he looked at me.
I was trembling.
“Amelia?”
I swallowed.
“I'm afraid to hope.”
His eyes softened.
“I know.”
“What if I wake up tomorrow and they tell me the same thing?”
“Then I'll be there.”
“And if they tell me something different?”
His fingers closed around mine.
“Then I'll still be there.”
I looked at the distant lights.
Somewhere beyond those buildings, people were falling asleep without wondering whether their hearts would still be beating next week.
I wanted that ordinary certainty.
I wanted to wake up and complain about the weather.
I wanted to buy groceries because I expected to be hungry on Friday.
I wanted to finish my painting.
And, for the first time in years, I wanted to fall in love without imagining the funeral afterward.
I turned toward Lucian.
“Promise me something.”
“Anything reasonable.”
I smiled weakly.
“If tomorrow is bad, don't turn me into another person you couldn't save.”
His expression changed.
“Amelia—”
“Promise.”
He looked at me for a long time.
Then he nodded.
“I promise to listen to what you want.”
That wasn't exactly the promise I'd asked for.
But somehow, it was better.
Because I didn't need another man who thought saving me meant controlling me.
I needed someone who would stand beside me while I decided how to live.
We returned downstairs shortly after midnight.
At the apartment door, Marco was waiting.
He held a sealed envelope.
“Boss, this was delivered to the attorney's office.”
Lucian took it.
Inside was a single photograph.
It showed me at seventeen, standing outside my high school with my best friend.
I stared at it.
“How did Adrian Bell get this?”
Marco looked uneasy.
“There's writing on the back.”
Lucian turned the photograph over.
May you like
The message was written in black ink.
“ASK AMELIA WHO HER FATHER REALLY WORKED FOR.”
