His words hang there, like a pronouncement I can’t ignore. I have no doubt in my mind that he means them; with everything else so confusing, his love for me shone loud and clear from the moment he walked into my hospital room. But maybe it wasn’t his love for me that was in doubt.
Maybe I stopped loving him.
And if I did… why did I? Or did something else happen?
If only I could remember.
I knewthat I once lived in California, but that before I did, I grew up in Harmony Heights, just like Dallas. How? Well, he told me, and I can’t see any reason why he would lie. While I wasin St. Luke’s, with Carol watching closely as our chaperone, Dallas did everything he could to prove that he was who he said he was.
He has pictures of us in his phone. He showed me plenty, watching me for some sign of recognition as he explained where we were and what we were doing in each of them. Nothing sparked in the back of my mind, though I enjoyed seeing the happiness on our youthful faces, evidence of the love that was once there.
Here, in the penthouse, there’s no sign of that. No sign of his family, either. As we continue to tour the entire floor, I notice how… howemptyit is. It’s completely void of personality, and if he decided to say, psych, and tell me he was thinking about buying it instead of having lived in it for so long, I wouldn’t have any trouble believing him.
There are no photos on the wall. No mess anywhere. It’s almost sterile, and the only time I feel like this place reallyisDallas’s is when he points out his bedroom. It’s the only room in the house with color and life and—to my quiet relief—a purely masculine air that suggests it rarely sees a female guest.
I shouldn’t be like that, especially when there’s video proof that I walked into a hotel with another man. I don’t know who he is—though Dallas has asked me a couple of times, and so has that detective at the hospital—but, yeah, I can’t remember that, either. Whether it was a fluke and we walked in together at the same time, or I had somehow moved on from Dallas, it doesn’t matter. We weren’t together at the time. If he found pleasure with another woman, who am I to judge?
But I’m his wife. Hiswife. That’s what he keeps telling me, that I’m his wife, and he’s my husband, and that’s why I’m torn between being grateful and slightly disappointed when he eases past his bedroom and leads me to another room a few down from his.
He opens the door, gesturing inside. “Here you go, Lucy. Until you feel more like yourself, how about we make this one yours.”
I step into the room. While it gives off definitely ‘guest room’ vibes, I can’t help but notice the new bedding in neutral colors. At his urging, I peek my head in the closet, gasping softly when I see that it’s more than half-filled.
“I hope it’s all the right size. I asked the patient advocate to check the clothes you came into St. Luke’s in, then Loni… you’ll meet her eventually, she’s Adrian’s wife… she helped him get some stuff together for you while I waited with you to be discharged. If you don’t like it, we can place some orders together, but I thought you’d want to come home, shower, and change into something new.”
While he hovers right behind me, waiting to see my reaction, I inch closer to the closet. I see dresses. Jeans. Sweaters. A new coat hanging on the back of the door, and at least three pairs of shoes on the bottom of the closet. Moving to the dresser, I peek in the top drawer. New underwear—both bras and panties—are folded neatly, placed inside with the tags still attached.
“You went to all this trouble for me,” I say softly. “I don’t know how I can thank you enough.”
“You don’t have to, Luce. I wanted you to be comfortable.” Dallas moves behind me, brushing his fingers possessively over my shoulder. “I want you to feel like you’re home.”
I glance up at him. “And this is my room? I… I mean, if we’re married… shouldn’t I be staying with you?”
I see something flicker in Dallas’s green eyes, there and gone again. “You’re staying with me here. In the penthouse. For now, that’s enough.” He lowers his head, pressing his lips to the top of mine. “I’ll give you your space, okay, baby? For as long as you need it.”
There’s that flash of gratitude warring with rejection again.
And all I can ask myself is: what if I need it forever?
SEVEN
NIGHTMARES
LUCY
When I was in St. Luke’s, I spent six days in a coma, then two-and-a-half hoping that I would be released soon. Compared to the first week at the Fortress—the cheeky name that Harmony Heights locals call the tallest building in town—it felt like an eternity. Here, in the safety of Dallas’s penthouse, the time seems to fly by.
Then again, I’d say that most of that passes in fragments. I came home with two weeks’ worth of pain pills in case I needed them. Considering the pain drip allowed me to sleep through a lot of my hospital stay, it’s no surprise that my head feels just as fuzzy as I work my way through the prescription.
I have my own room, but my husband gives me free rein to move about the house. He has a massive seventy-inch television in one room, plus every single streaming service you can think of, so I find solace in watching the screen and figuring out what type of shows Lucy Wright enjoys.
Dallas, of course, has work. He took off the two days he spent by my side at the hospital, then two more as I got settled into his place, but after that, he reluctantly had to leave me behind.
He leaves early, but not before he calls down to the kitchen and arranges for a breakfast we can share to come up. He does the same for lunch and dinner, returning to eat with me, and when I pointed out that it might be better if we cooked for ourselves in his pristine kitchen, he looked like the thought has never crossed his mind. Of course, he then asked me if I remembered how to cook, almost bashfully admitting that he never bothered to learn himself, and since I was afraid I might burn down the whole building if I tried, I agreed to take advantage of theinhe has with the people who work here.
Before he went to the garage on the third day, he gave me a phone. He wasn’t happy with the smashed one that Carol passed to him along with my clothing. Instead of repairing my old phone, he bought me a new one to go along with my brand new wardrobe.
“It only has my number in it,” he told me. “Call if you need anything.Anything, Lucy. I’ll be here before you know it.”
