“That’s not a bad idea…”
Caelian and I finally get out of bed and begin our day with hot showers. From there we enjoy a light breakfast on the terrace and then go our separate ways. I make him promise one last time that he won’t hurt Ms. Poitier and he advises me to behave during my appointment with the fertility doctor.
We won’t see each other again until this evening for dinner.
I dress myself upstairs, feeling odd about Ms. Poitier’s absence. Every day since I’ve lived on Caelian’s estate, she’s been by my side almost at all times. She helps pick out my outfits and styles my hair. Doing it without her feels strange considering she’s still under the same roof.
She’s just locked in a cell.
I head to the parlor in the west wing where I’m supposed to be meeting the doctor.
“There you are,” Matteo says, coming from down the hall. “I’ve been trying to track you down. Guess that’s what happens when there’s no Ms. P to keep tabs on you. The doctors have just arrived. They’re in the den in the east wing.”
“The east wing? Are you sure?”
“’Course I’m sure. That’s what I said, didn’t I?”
Matteo redirects me in the opposite direction. The house is so massive sometimes it feels like I’m wandering a museum instead of a home. The east wing of Caelian’s estate has been cobwebbed and unused since long before I moved in. Portions of it he’s begun to renovate, like the dance studio he had put in for me.
The drawing room has yet to be given such treatment. I step through the doors only to find the room empty. But the small team of fertility doctors I’ve been treated by are nowhere to be found. I turn around to face Matteo with a question on the tip of my tongue, but he makes his intentions unmistakably clear—he’s smirking as he quickly thrusts a sack over my head.
Making everything go dark.
TWENTY-THREE
Caelian
“You still haven’t been followingorders, Mr. C,” Dr. Tulio scolds. “Haven’t we discussed how important it is to avoid high stress situations? You have to take these warnings seriously.”
“Understand, doctor, that I might not do what you want every moment of the day. But it doesn’t mean I’m not taking this seriously.”
He bites back any retort he’s thought up, giving a shake of his head and deciding it’s not worth it. He would be correct—I’m in no mood to deal with foolishness. His admonishments fall under that category.
I lay back in the examination chair and listen to the sounds of Tulio preparing the injections. Plastic crinkles as he pries open a fresh syringe from its packaging and then fills it up with the treatment. He taps his fingers against the cylinder to eliminate any bubbles taking form.
“Soon we’ll need to readdress the treatment the Gerber Clinic has developed for your condition. I understand your reservations, but it’s the only way to ensure your survival. Thetreatments we’re doing now, they’re not sustainable long term. That… or you can opt for the orthotopic cardiac graft. But you are well aware of the success rates for people like you…”
“I’ll make that decision when I choose to, doctor,” I say coldly. I position my arm so the inner forearm is facing up. “Go ahead and get started. There are more important matters I need to address than this fucking malfunctioning heart of mine.”
Dr. Tulio does as he’s told, though I sense tension kindling in the air between us. I watch on as he pricks me with the sharp needle and the clear liquid is injected into my veins. The numbing effect is instantaneous.
The drowsiness takes its time.
The slip out of consciousness is so subtle, it takes me a while to realize I’ve begun dreaming. I’m no longer in the examination chair but a different kind of chair—I’m seated in a lounge among other men.
Cigar smoke hazes the space, making the others nearby appear fuzzier than they are. The musty, earthy scent tickles my nostrils and makes me cough. I’ve rarely smoked cigars for this reason.
My condition doesn’t mix well with anything that makes it harder to breathe.
The cigar haze aside, I do my best to glance around the lounge and place those around me. No one’s face comes into focus. It’s as if my eyesight refuses to cooperate by letting me see who I’m seated with.
Their voices are no less disguised, muffled to my ears.
I’m only able to decipher a few words here and there. Words like treatment and profit. I pick up on what sounds like my father’s distorted voice in this dreamland I’m stuck in. He’s speaking to someone else who I can’t figure out.
Soft, cherubic music interrupts my eavesdropping. Turning my head, I discover there’s a stage at the front of the lounge.From both the left and right side, ballerinas flit onto the floor in graceful leaps.
Their performance has begun. They have a captive audience that cuts short their conversations and directs their attention to the stage.
