Mila bobs one shoulder and looks away from him, and it starts to dawn on me what I am dealing with.
"Well if you're feeling down, I can prescribe some medications." Levin stands, but he hovers.
"I'm alright. I promise, if I need something, I'll call you." She looks uncomfortable, and I feel relieved that Levin hasn't announced some need for further testing yet.
"Try to eat more," he says, tucking his penlight away.
"I'll try," Mila mumbles, but her head is hanging now like a scolded child.
Levin finishes and gestures for me to step into the hallway. I pull the door halfway closed behind us as I follow him and he starts talking.
"She's dehydrated and run down, but nothing alarming," he says at almost a whisper. "Her blood pressure's low, and it appears she's exhausted and mildly depressed. She needs sunshine and water, and people around her. The withdrawal, the appetite loss—it's consistent with grief. If her father's death was recent, this is likely the worst of it."
"How long does this last?" His words are no surprise after my lightbulb moment in the room. I've been expecting Mila to act normally because her loss hasn't touched me. I'm not mourning Anton in any way. I stand to benefit from his death. I'm foolish, and I feel my heart breaking for her. It's an odd sensation for a man who never allows himself the luxury of emotions.
"Depends on the person—weeks, months? There's no timeline for mourning, Roman. Everyone moves through it differently."
"Is there anything you can give her?" I ask, now worried I'm going to fail at caring for her because I am so inept when it comes to matters of intimacy and compassion. "Should I be worried?"
"I'll send over supplements for the dehydration and some vitamins. But the grief isn't medical. She needs to feel safe enough to eat and rest and reconnect with the people around her. That's not a prescription I can write."
And of course the one thing she needs most is something that challenges me to my core. If you ask me to fight, I'll knock outmy opponent. If you ask me to run a business or enforce rules, I'm going to be successful. But if you ask me to hold a woman while she cries, or soothe a scared child, I'm going to fail. I don't know the first thing about it.
"Yes, okay," I mutter, feeling hopeless. Maybe Rebecca will help. God knows if it's up to me, Mila will only get worse.
Dr. Levin turns and walks down the hallway with his bag while I stand there for a moment with my hand on the doorframe, watching him go.
I could've handled a virus or infection, but grief wasn't what I expected. I love this woman. I've known it for weeks now. But hearing a doctor tell me she's drowning in grief while I stand outside her door unable to do anything about it makes the knowing worse.
I'd buy her a house if she'd take it. I'd fly her anywhere in the world if she'd let me. I'd tear Vera apart with my bare hands if it would bring the color back to her face. But grief doesn't respond to force or money or grand gestures, and that's the only way I know how to solve problems.
After everything Vera put her through—the manipulation, the isolation, the years of being treated as less than her stepsisters—I can't force Mila's hand. I know that now. But I can protect her from whatever Vera has planned, and I can make sure she walks into that gala the way she deserves to—like a queen, not as a servant borrowing someone else's life.
When I walk back in, Alana has unzipped three garment bags and draped the dresses across the foot of the bed—an emerald floor-length gown with a fitted bodice and a slit up the left side, a midnight blue with a draped back and thin straps, anda black silk tea-length with an asymmetric neckline. She's got a measuring tape around her neck and a pincushion on her wrist and she's already in work mode.
"This would be stunning on you," Alana says, holding up the emerald dress and turning the hanger so the fabric shimmers in the light. "With your coloring, this green is perfect. The bodice sits here"—she gestures across her own chest—"and the slit falls mid-thigh. Elegant without trying too hard."
Alana looks up expectantly, and the poor thing doesn't realize I'm forcing Mila to do this. Meanwhile, Mila looks like a ticking time bomb ready to explode and it's all my fault. If I'd have known it was all just grief and mourning her father, I’d never have pushed this on her. We'd have had an entirely different conversation.
"This one is more understated." Alana sets the emerald gown down and picks up the blue. "See how we have classic, very clean lines. The drape in the back is gorgeous." Her hands fan out over the material and her warm smile is convincing, but Mila isn't having it.
"I'm not going to the gala," Mila says, her eyes on me, not Alana.
"You are." After what the doctor said, I want to be gentle with her, not forceful, but my plan doesn't work if she's not there.
"I told you I'm not." Now she's just being stubborn, folding her arms over her chest as she rises from the bed staring at me defiantly.
"And I told you that you don't get a choice. The gala is in seven days and you need a dress." What doesn't she understand about this? It's not optional. She will be with me. It has to be this way.
"I don't need a dress because I'm not?—"
"Try the emerald one," I tell her, cutting her off. My tone is calm and I'm trying to sound friendly, but she's being so stubborn. "You don't have to put it on, just hold it against yourself and look in the mirror."
"No," she spits, and I see the tears building, the shine in her eyes that she's fighting to hold back. She hugs herself more tightly as her bottom lip trembles and she looks to Alana, who's gone still by the window.
I turn to Alana, knowing I'm not going to get anywhere with Mila tonight, but she still needs a dress. "We'll use the emerald gown, thank you. Use the measurements I sent over and have it fitted by Wednesday. Bring hair and makeup the night of."
"Of course." Alana shoves the dresses back in the bags and zips them, then collapses the rack, moving more quickly now. "I'll have everything delivered."
