A little out of breath, she responds, “It’s Mr. Marshall. He’s in a lot of pain, complaining about his side and back. He can barely move. I think it might be kidney stones again. He used to get them even though he hasn’t had them in a while.”
Coldness sweeps through me. “Has anyone contacted the doctor?”
She nods her head emphatically. “But he won’t be here for another twenty minutes, and Mr. Marshall is adamant about making it to his flight.”
“We’re flying on his private plane,” I state. “We have the power to easily reschedule. We can bump departure time back a couple of hours. We can dress on the plane for the event tonight if we need to.”
“Will you come explain that to him? He simply isn’t listening to us.” The frail look on her face persuades me.
Plus, I get the opportunity to go into Darcy’s room. It’s one of the few rooms I haven’t stepped foot in since working here and moving in as his wife.
“Let’s go.”
A little over a minute later, we stand at his doorway. The urge to knock and make my presence known is overwhelming, but I also don’t want to be screamed at to go away. If normal Darcy is grumpy, there’s no telling what in-pain Darcy is going to be like. Putting on my mental armor, I shove open the double doors to his bedroom.
He sits on his bed slumped over with one pant leg on and the other dangling off to the side, revealing boxer briefs that… have prickly cacti on them? How fitting. I bite my tongue to hold in my laugh. His hair is disheveled, sticking up like a classic anime character, and his white dress shirt is only buttoned halfway.Like that dream…
The laughter I was holding back over his boxers fades, replaced with something more akin to a bomb igniting in my chest. My heart stutters, then begins pumping triple time when I get a good look at the man I’m married to. When his gaze cuts to me, I throw my hands over my eyes as if I wasn’t ogling my sick husband.
However, his perfectly proportioned pectorals are branded into my brain now. I’ll die dreaming of that chest.
Not the time, Hayden,I reprimand myself.
“Darcy, you need to take care of yourself and wait for the doctor. We can push back our flight if we need to.”
“Hayden, what in the world are you doing in my room?” His voice is tired and scratchy. “Turn around.”
I do as he says because I can see the pain in his eyes and hear the suffering in his voice. Darcy Marshall is not a man who will tolerate being seen as weak. “Janice informed me of your possible predicament. If you push yourself too hard, you’ll take that much longer to heal and could end up in the hospital. Then we will have to delay and reschedule a lot more than a flight.”
“We have a schedule to stick to,” he says, though by the end of the slow statement, he’s groaning in pain.
“No. You are going to the hospital,” I state, making my decision. “Janice, we can’t wait on the doctor.”
Darcy groans again, clutching his side. I’ve never seen his face contorted in pure agony. The flightwillwait.
“Fine,” he breathes out with yet another groan.
Immediately, Janice and Bennie, whom I didn’t realize had entered the room, are on the phone and making arrangements for Darcy to be secretly admitted to the hospital. A whirlwind ofpreparations begins, and I remain a wallflower, watching the whole scene play out.
Helplessness plagues my thoughts, and I wish I knew what I should do at this moment. But all I can do is watch.
Bennie dresses Darcy in joggers and a t-shirt. Janice packs a bag with Darcy’s things in case he has to stay overnight.
And I watch.
What kind of wife am I that I can’t help my husband in such a time as this?
Forty-five minutes later, Darcy and I are in the largest hospital room that I have ever seen—so large there is a small tree occupying the room. Seriously, they must reserve these for future presidents and billionaires. The walls are the typical white color, but the space is aesthetically pleasing with green accents and earthy decor.
Darcy is dressed in a hospital gown, but a white sheet covers him. He’s not sleeping, but his eyes are squeezed shut, creating creases in his forehead and a scrunch to his nose. My heart aches at the sight, and I send a silent prayer to God for quick healing and pain relief.
I need my future president functioning properly.
I need my husband to not to be in pain.
Bennie talks on his cellphone right outside the door, rearranging our plans, presumably. Janice did not come with us, so now I must step up and be the actual wife in this situation, not his campaign manager. When the doctor waltzes into the room, I whip out my phone to take notes. That’s what a wife would do, right?
“Mr. and Mrs. Marshall,” he begins with a friendly smile. His gray hair puts me at ease—a doctor with practice. Not to knock theyoung and upcoming doctors in the world, but for some reason, I trust this man a little more than someone looking fresh out of medical school.
