Six months later
My mother slips into a doze while I’m lying next to her. I stay in place for a few minutes, smiling at the peaceful sound of her breathing. Smiling at how much better she’s been lately, and hopefully for a long time to come.
Anders contact in oncology turned out to be a life saver, literally. After examining my mother and combing through her copious notes from long years fighting her disease, he enrolled her in a trial, utilising her genetic profile to tweak the medication on offer to fit her particular situation.
The difference was spectacular. Instead of her treatments knocking as much out of my mother as it did the disease, the personalised medication stomped the cancer into immobility while keeping her strength intact.
For months after, each time I visited, I noticed an improvement. It was like scrolling backwards through a photo album, with each new turn of the page showing a younger, fitter version of the subject. Winding all the way back so that soon she might live independently again.
Not that she has to. With the generous access to Anders’ money, we can provide people to wait on her hand and foot for the rest of her, hopefully much longer, life.
The cancer is still there, but it’s more like one of those ailments you die with rather than from. Even if things revert tomorrow, I’ve already had far more time with her than I’d dared to hope.
Enough time with her to talk about the ghosts from our past and finally put them to bed. Enough time to know for sure that neither of us is holding onto guilt that belongs to someone else.
I ease myself off the bed, nodding to the nurse who pops his head around the corner to check on us. Outside, I rush to my car and get behind the wheel just as my phone beeps with a call.
“I’m coming,” I shout, not even checking the screen, I’m that certain who the call is from. “Don’t leave for the show without me.”
As a treat, Trent bought us tickets to the World of Wearable Art awards. Knowing his contacts, the VIP table is probably going to be in the very best seats.
But we’re not going to sit in them unless I move my arse. We’re using a private jet to get up to Wellington—courtesy of Anders—but I still need to get to the airport and get onboard quick as possible for us to make the opening time.
“Don’t bother coming home first,” he tells me with a laugh. “I’ve got a dozen different outfits waiting for you on the plane.”
“Okay. Wait! You’re on the plane already?”
“Yes,” he says, and I can hear the eyeroll in his voice. “Right where you should be.”
I scrabble for my seatbelt, tucking my phone away, and set a course on the GPS for the airport. Once there, I toss my keys to the valet and jog for the private suites where an employee escorts me the rest of the way to the plane.
“Swanky,” I tell Trent once he breaks our greeting kiss long enough for me to draw air. “How come I’ve never been on your private jet before?”
“Because we have everything you need at home.”
“Ah,” I say with a nod of agreement. “That sounds like the sort of stupid thing I’d say.”
“When we get home, I have another surprise for you.”
I examine Trent’s face closely but when the boy wants to keep a secret, he keeps it. Luckily, I know a secret weapon. Five minutes after take-off—safety first—I tickle him until he begs for mercy.
“Okay, okay. I’ve found a small apartment that I think would suit the two of us. It’s near the university and close to Stefan’s main club, so we’ll both shave hours off our commuting time each week.”
“But I enjoy driving.”
I’m only halfway through testing the fleet of sports cars that Anders keeps in his three garages. The excess is disgusting until I’m behind the wheel of a gorgeous gem that can go from nought to a hundred with barely a squeak.
“Then you’ll just exchange driving for necessity with driving for pleasure.”
“And how small is small?”
“It’s only two floors.”
I give him a cautious glance, wondering what else he’s hiding. “And would they be close to the ground?”
“They’d be the penthouse and the demi-penthouse.”
“Of course. Can’t have you slumming it.”
