Chapter 31 #2
I snort loud enough that Marlene’s head jerks, in my direction. “I’m sorry, where are my manners? Ariel, was it?” Ariel. The slow blink I give her could level a city. Oh, she didn’t. As Tasha would say: Step up or be stepped on.
My smile is all fake, honey. “It’s Aria. Ms. Boschett to you… and according to him…” I gesture with my thumb toward Cyan, “I’m his girlfriend. I didn’t realize ‘seductive receptionist’ was a career path, but you wear it well.”
Her eyes widen. She glances at Cyan, wordlessly begging him to correct me. He doesn’t. “Just remember, you’re at work, not a bar,” I add, my voice sugar-dipped venom. “Act professional, Marlene.”
She stands there frozen, throat bobbing with a tiny swallow she tries to hide. Then with a huff, she spins on her heel and clicks her way back behind the desk, her posture now rigid.
Cyan laughs, deep and unrestrained. “Why, Dove,” Cyan throws his arm over my shoulder, leaning down until his lips brush the edge of my ear. “Did you just lay claim to me?”
My jaw clenches hard enough to crack teeth. “Don’t get the wrong idea. That woman should have more pride.”
Cyan hums low in his throat, pleased. “Just physical, my ass,” he throws my earlier line back at me. “Jealousy looks good on you.”
I jerk back, heat flooding my cheeks. “What? I’m not jealous!”
His grin is pure sin. “Tell yourself whatever lies you need to, Aria. I know better.”
Before I can fire back, someone clears their throat. Dr. Sunil is standing behind us, having returned, eyes flicking between us–me flushed and fuming, Cyan smug and relaxed. He gives a polite but knowing smile. “Ready?”
“Y… yes,” I mumble, stepping away from Cyan.
Cyan’s gaze lingers on me a moment longer, but for once he doesn’t push. “Lead the way.”
We follow Dr. Sunil to a security checkpoint where two guards hand us visitor badges.
His tone turns more formal as he gestures to the double-glass doors ahead.
“Ms. Boschett, this is the main entrance to the village. The first set of doors must close all the way before the second set opens. For safety.” Why does a place like this need safety protocols?
My stomach churns with nervous anticipation. The first set of doors slides shut behind us. The second door opens, a small-town centre stretches before me. A real one–coffee shops, hair salon, supermarket and restaurants.
People stroll along the sidewalks, chatting and smiling.
They move in and out of stores, carrying grocery bags and cups of steaming coffee.
It appears to be an idyllic older suburban community.
I’m not focused on Dr. Sunil and Cyan’s conversation as we move out the towns’ centre, my eyes scan the bungalows lining the streets.
It’s surreal. Like stepping into a pristine, suburb tucked inside a sealed world. A hopeful ache rises in my chest when we stop in front of a larger bungalow with a porch and wide windows.
“This is it, Ms. Boschett,” Dr. Sunil says. “Ring the doorbell. The caregiver will let you in.”
My heart pounds too hard, too loud. This can’t be… did he bring…I swivel toward Cyan, voice trembling. “What is this?”
His expression is unreadable. “This project draws inspiration from the European Dementia Village model; Dr. Ochco adapted it. It’s the first of its kind in this state.”
Dementia Village. My eyes burn, “Cyan…” My voice cracks. “Is my Nonna here?”
Cyan brushes his hand across my cheek. “Ring the doorbell, Aria.” Something in his voice sends me rushing up the walkway before I can think better of it. My hand trembles as I press the buzzer. The door opens almost immediately.
Pauline stands there, hands on her hips. “Aria!” she gasps, eyes bright. “Finally, you came for a visit.” She shakes her head like a disappointed aunt. “I was going to call you tonight. To scold you and thank you for the job recommendation.” Job recommendation?
My lips part, brain blanking. I swivel to Cyan.
“Go inside, Dove, see for yourself.” A lump lodges in my throat.
I step past Pauline, into the house, and the air leaves my lungs.
It’s beautiful. Soft pastels, wide hallways, an open floor plan with enough space for wheelchairs to glide through easily.
Plush furniture. Warm lighting. Framed pictures of my parents, of me and some with just Nonna and I.
These pictures were stored in a moving box.
Now line a feature wall like a curated family gallery.
Sunlight spills through the enormous windows. The house feels open and alive. This is nothing like the cramped, suffocating bedroom I trapped her in at my Crescent Bay house. This place was built with her in mind—her mobility, her dignity and my eyes sting.
“She’s in the sunroom,” Pauline says pointing in it’s direction.
I walk toward the doorway in a daze. My feet move faster than my thoughts, and I see her.
Nonna sits curled in a recliner, a patchwork quilt over her lap, head resting lightly to the side as she dozes.
Her breathing is soft, peaceful. Untroubled.
My hand flies to my mouth to hold back a sob.
I stand there, simply watching her, memorizing how she looks here.
Not trapped. Just... at peace. For the first time since Cyan took her from me.
I don’t feel like I’ve failed her. Cyan must have planned this even before he took me.
I back out, unwilling to wake her. My fingers tremble as I return to the living room.
“She’s asleep?” I say
Pauline gives me a hopeful glance. “She loves it here, She’s thriving Aria. Rosa makes sure of it.”
Rosa? The name hits me like a slap. “…What do you mean?” My voice cracks.
Pauline frowns. “She visits every day. Walks with her. Cooks with her. Keeps her company. She practically moved in those first few days.”
My jaw goes slack. She… kept her word to check on my grandmother, but every single day? I stagger. I never actually believed her.
Pauline looks toward the door. “Where is Rosa?”
“My aunt isn’t here today. She wanted to give Aria time alone with her grandmother.” Cyan says. I blink at him, vision blurring again. This was him. All of this. Before he ever dragged me into his world—he’d already built a better one for her.
Before I can say anything, the front door opens A woman wrapped in a green sari walks in.
Soft curves. Long braid to her waist. Warm brown eyes like my own.
She smiles. Before I can form a coherent word, Cyan’s phone rings.
He glances at the screen, jaw tightening.
“I need to take this. You two talk.” He strides past me, all broad shoulders, and disappears into the kitchen.
“Hello, you must be Aria. I’m Dr. Ochoa,” the woman’s voice has a full Texas twang.
My brain shuts off. “I, uh…” A sound wheezes out of me.
Dr. Ochoa bursts into laughter. Pauline joins in. “I was the same way,” Pauline says. “It’s her accent, it’s so unexpected that throws you off.”
Wiping tears of laughter from her eyes, Dr. Ochoa explains, “My mother was from India, my father from Nigeria, and I grew up in Texas. I confuse people a lot.”
“That’s… an understatement,” I mutter, grinning.
Pauline steps out to check on Nonna, leaving us, and Dr. Ochoa turns back to me. “First, Aria, thank you.”
My brows knit. “Why are you thanking me?”
She gestures around us. “For this. For all of it.”
A wave of confusion crashes through me. “I don–don’t understand.”
“Cyan funded the entire dementia village… because of you.” The words hit me like a physical blow. My knees nearly buckle as I take hold of the nearest wall. Because of me? My throat closes. I wrap my free arm around myself, trying to contain the messy, aching storm inside me.
Dr. Ochoa continues, as if sensing the emotional upheaval. “This village gives our residents a normal life—no restraints, no locked wards, and no cruel overmedication. They shop, cook, visit friends and enjoy their days. Your grandmother is thriving.”
Swallowing hard, my eyes blur. I think about my grandmother, how much she hated the nursing home in Chicago.
Glancing toward the back door where Pauline has gone, thinking of my Nonna peacefully sleeping in the sunroom.
“I...” I pause, my throat tightening. “Thank you, doctor, for caring about the elderly.”
Dr. Ochoa’s smile deepens. “Please call me Saaha.” She shakes her head. “And no thanks are necessary. I believe everyone deserves quality healthcare. If you want to thank someone, thank Cyan. He funded the entire project.”
I nod numb. An estate of this size, with this level of planning and execution, would have taken months. Which means... Cyan didn’t just take my grandmother to control me.
He stands at the kitchen counter, back turned, broad shoulders tense as he murmurs into the phone. Unaware how much my world just tilted.
As if sensing it–sensing me–he turns. Our eyes meet and I can’t look away from, his blue-green stare.