“Less frequent,” she answers. “Still there, but it’s manageable.”
“She still needs the specialized glasses whenever we go outside,” I add. “And she tires quickly.”
Alina throws me a look that says she wasn’t going to mention that part. I raise an eyebrow in response. We both know I’ll withhold nothing from the medical professionals responsible for her care.
Especially not when I practically forced the doctor to come in here and do the nurse’s job. I’m not going to do that and then withhold details.
“That’s to be expected,” Dr. Nilsson says, setting his tablet aside. “Mrs. Brewer-Russo, your recovery is progressing exceptionally well, but I need to emphasize that you’re still in a delicate healing phase. The brain needs time and rest to fully recover from trauma like yours.”
“I understand,” Alina says softly.
“For the next four weeks, you’ll need to continue limiting physical activity. No heavy lifting with either arm, even though only one is broken. No strenuous exercise. Minimize screen time and maintain a consistent sleep schedule.” He glances at me, clearly aware of who’s been enforcing these rules. “The dizziness should continue to decrease, but if it worsens or if headaches intensify, that’s cause for immediate medical attention.”
I’ve heard all this before. Memorized it. Created contingency plans for every possible complication. The doctor could save his breath, but I let him continue for Alina’s benefit.
“And now that you’ve seen her, what’s your opinion on traveling?” I ask when he pauses.
Dr. Nilsson’s expression grows more serious as he considers this. As I’ve been in touch with him since Alina told me she wanted to go home, he knows what I’ve planned. His eyes return to Alina.
“I see no reason you can’t go home as long as you’re not flying and you take it slow.”
He already knows I’ve rented a yacht to take us to Florida, then ground transportation the rest of the way. Five days travel time.But in comfortable accommodations with minimal disruption or stress.
“It’ll be slow and as free of stress as possible,” I smirk.
The yacht I’ve chartered is a hundred twenty-foot luxury vessel with stabilizers to minimize motion, a dedicated master suite designed for medical recovery, and every comfort Alina could possibly need.
I’ve hired two doctors and two nurses to accompany us—all vetted personally by both Dr. Nilsson and Colin—who will monitor her around the clock during the journey. And I’ve mapped multiple emergency protocols for immediate medical evacuation at every point of our journey should anything go wrong.
Dr. Nilsson smiles as he retrieves a small packet from a drawer and hands it to me. “These are her final prescriptions and care instructions. The wound site will need to be cleaned daily, but it can get wet now. Her cast comes off in another three weeks—she’ll need to see an orthopedist in Cleveland for that.”
I take the packet, already knowing I’ll review it multiple times before we leave, cross-referencing it against the care plan I’ve developed.
“Any questions?” he asks.
Alina fiddles with her diamond choker and shakes her head.
I bought it back from Ray, who was more than happy to help. Now, I owe him a debt. Not money, he got more than enough of that for helping. But he knows he can call if he ever needs anything.
“When can we depart?” I ask.
“Today should be fine.” He reaches out to shake my hand. “It’s been a pleasure taking care of Mrs. Brewer-Russo. She’s a remarkable patient.”
I shake his hand firmly. “Thank you for your care,” I say, meaning it despite the brevity of my words. This man helpedsave my wife’s life, helped me assemble the medical team that will travel with us. He deserves my gratitude.
“Safe travels home,” he says, nodding to us both before stepping out.
In the fluorescent-lit hallway outside the examination room, Alina carefully adjusts a wide-brimmed straw hat over her healing scalp. Her fingers move with deliberate precision, positioning the brim to shield both her eyes and the visible evidence of her trauma.
The part where they shaved her for surgery is growing back in soft red fuzz, but the incision line remains stark—a curved seam of pink against her pale skin that makes my blood pressure spike every time I see it.
Not because it mars her beauty, but because it reminds me how close I came to losing her.
“These too,” I say, handing her the specialized dark glasses for her photosensitivity.
She slides them on, hiding those pale blue eyes I’ve come to need like oxygen. Even like this—fragile, healing, partially hidden—she’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. More so now than before, perhaps, because now I know what it means to almost lose her.
“Better?” she asks, her voice soft but steady.
