Arabian Nights
Vera
Iwoke up in a thick haze of anesthesia, my body heavy and senses dulled, yet aware.
Disinfectant and artificial lemon flooded my nose, sharp and chemical.
My tongue felt like dry chalk, stuck to the roof of my mouth.
A heart monitor ticked out a steady rhythm beside me, each beep syncing with the dull throb in my abdomen.
With every pulse, the truth pressed in harder: Saint John’s Hospital.
Post-surgery. Reality coming into sharper focus.
I swallowed hard, recalling my tubal ligation reversal: the cold operating room, glaring lights, and the whisper of hope.
A chance to have children—nothing promised, but still a chance.
Blinking away from the sunlit window, I scanned the room, my gaze drifting to two familiar faces waiting at my bedside.
Emerald eyes.
Two pairs, nearly identical, yet set apart by age and experience.
Alistair’s expression softened, warmth and relief written across his handsome face, framed by soft curls that gleamed golden brown in the clinical brightness.
Damian stood beside him, his young face showing a mix of awkwardness and quiet concern.
His sandy hair was messy, stubborn strands refusing to behave.
“I, um...got these for you,” Damian mumbled, stepping forward with a shy smile. He held out a bouquet of tiger lilies, stems slightly bent from his nervous grip. “Dad said they’re your favorite.”
I smiled, gratitude filling my heart. “Your dad’s right. They’re perfect,” I replied, shooting Alistair a knowing look.
Alistair came closer, taking my hand. His thumb traced slow, comforting circles against my skin. “Doctor Cohen said everything went smoothly. You need to rest. I’ve already notified your HR rep that you’ll get time off. Your recovery is non-negotiable.”
I fidgeted with the plastic band around my wrist. My hospital gown did nothing to ward off the frigid air. “It's freezing in here.”
“Wait a sec,” Damian responded, moving toward the wardrobe. He rummaged through and took out a knitted cardigan, handing it to his father.
“Can you sit up just a bit?” Alistair’s voice was gentle, coaxing.
I nodded and pushed myself upright, wincing at the sharp sting of stitches pulling tight. Warmth enveloped me as Alistair draped the cardigan around my shoulders, his strong hands lingering to rub reassuringly. “Better?”
“Mmm,” I murmured. “Much better.”
Damian shifted in the seat beside me, blowing stray hair from his eyes. He wore a look I recognized instantly. The quiet intensity meant he had something important he needed to get off his chest.
Catching Alistair’s eye, I asked, “Sweetie, could you grab me a mocha and one of those chocolate croissants from the café downstairs?”
“Of course.” Alistair turned toward Damian. “Anything for you. Son?”
Damian shook his head, mouthing, “No.”
Alistair slipped out, leaving me and the kid to talk. The air thickened with silence, anticipation swirling between us.
“All right,” I said, giving Damian a playful, conspiratorial look. “Spill. What’s on your mind?”
He showed off his dimpled smile. “Now that you’re living with Dad, are you officially my stepmom now?”
A gentle warmth settled around my heart. “Yeah. I like the sound of that. Don't you?”
Damian nodded, his fingers interlaced as he pondered deeply.
My thoughts drifted to how Alistair had insisted I move in with him, and how he'd made his luxurious penthouse my home.
It had been a few months now, but it wasn't the infinity pool, butler service, or walk-in wardrobe of branded clothing that mattered.
It was this. Moments like now, building something real and meaningful with Damian, becoming family in all the ways that mattered most. It was this boy in front of me, looking as if he carried a burden too heavy for his age.
His brows knitted together, his young face drawn into solemn lines. “I don’t want to live with Mother. Can you help me?”
Alarm bells rang in my mind. I took Damian’s hand, stroking his warm palm. “Hey, of course. I’ll do whatever it takes to keep you safe.”
Damian’s voice lowered to a whisper, vulnerability creeping into every word. “I don’t feel safe with her. The things she does disgust me.”
My breath snagged in my throat, dread pooling in my stomach. “Damian, is Saira touching you, or making others—”
“No.” He cut me off, shaking his head. “It’s not me. I can defend myself. But the girls and boys Mother brings to her parties. Things happen to them. And then they disappear.”
My pulse raced. “Disappear? Damian, what exactly do you mean?”
He averted his gaze. “Sorry. I probably shouldn’t have said anything.”
“No. No, I’m glad you trust me with this. Have you told your dad? Or the police?”
“Mother has friends who are the police. Some are her clients.” His voice was weary, much older than his years. “She’s working with ‘Mad’ Mike Marino. The Piranha. Heard of him?”
I blew out a low whistle, dread sinking deeper into my bones.
Mike Marino was a name that carried weight in the courtrooms—always spoken in low voices, never far from a rumor.
He was the mobster who trafficked the worst narcotics, and, if the whispers were true, human lives. No one had ever proved it.
“Holy shit. He’s partnering with your mother? Does your dad know?”
“Yeah. He’s onto it, quietly. He’s got cop friends too, and Angelo Lucciano—the mafia boss. Mike and Mother don’t like Angelo because he’s their competition in the mob world. I overheard him and Dad talking once. Angelo hates Mom using people.”
“Wow,” I whispered, squeezing Damian’s hand. “You know way too much.”
A sly, secretive smile pulled at the corner of his lips, and he pressed one finger to them. “That’s why I keep quiet. For now. Someday I’ll tell you everything. I want to stop it all. Be a super hero.”
For a brief moment, a shadow flickered across his face—darkness, too deep for a boy his age—but I blinked, and it vanished as quickly as it appeared.
I steadied myself, lowering my voice. “You shouldn’t be dealing with this alone. You’re a hero already, Damian.”
“Then why can’t I be with you and Dad all the time? Not just half the time.”
“Your mother travels a lot, doesn’t she?” I pressed. “Stay with us until she calls you back. You belong here, Damian. With us.”
A genuine smile broke across his face. “Yes, Mom.”
The word made my heart swell.
Mom.
I’d do anything to keep him safe. If I could, I’d claim him as my own in every way that counted, including adoption, no hesitation.
Saira didn’t deserve a son like Damian. I’d talk to Alistair.
Whatever it took, we’d fight harder to gain full custody of him.
We’ll appeal the judge’s decision for joint custody. Damian belonged with us.
I gave his hand another squeeze. “So, how’s school?”
He shrugged with exaggerated teenage resignation. “Dad’s got me learning Mandarin now. Wants me ‘worldly’ enough for his empire.”
I grinned knowingly. “Want me to tell him to ease up?”
“Nah,” Damian smirked. “It’s fine. I like languages. I prefer math, though.”
“Sure about that?” I teased.
He ran a restless hand through his hair, grinning. “Yeah. Hey, Mom? Will you come to my volleyball game? It’s in a few weeks.”
I tapped his wrist, grinning. “When the team captain personally invites me? Wouldn’t miss it. Anyone special you’re trying to impress lately?”
Damian scoffed, eyes rolling. “When would I have time for dating? Volleyball, math club, student council, martial arts?”
I laughed, a rich burst that pulled at my stitches, making me wince. “I almost pity you. But trust me, someday you’ll thank your dad. He loves you.”
He tried not to smile, but it snuck out anyway. “Maybe. I met a girl once. Really pretty. Saw her and… I don’t know, my brain just kinda glitched.”
“Like you couldn’t catch your breath?”
Damian groaned, cheeks flushed scarlet. “Geez, Mom. Yeah. Awkward.”
I squeezed his hand. “Feelings are awkward. They make us stupid, but sometimes in a nice way. You might see her again someday.”
He stared down at our joined hands, then nodded. “Yeah. Maybe.”
“And when you do find someone special, bring her home. I want to meet her. Maybe when you’re in college. It’s a good time to fall in love.”
He lifted his eyes to mine. “You love Dad.”
“You and your dad are the best things that’ve ever happened to me.”
“Erm, erm.” Alistair fake coughed from the doorway, mocha in one hand, chocolate croissant in the other. “Hungry, Vera?”
I bit back a grin. This man, once a notorious playboy, was now a devoted partner and father.
Miracles really did happen.
Living with Alistair wasn’t just about changing addresses or swapping my old espresso machine for the one his butler swore by.
It was learning to share air with a man who could buy a private island but still insisted on reading the business section at the kitchen counter in his pajamas.
We didn’t fight over closet space, but I did veto the gold-foil wallpaper his decorator tried to sneak into my office.
Alistair’s idea of “making space” was to hand me the keys to the largest guest suite and say, “Do whatever you want. Knock down a wall if you need to.”
He meant it, too. The suite became my sanctuary—white shelves lined with law books, windows wide open to the city below.
He installed a soundproof door after he caught me working late and realized I took client calls at all hours.
Sometimes, I’d wake to the scent of coffee and find he’d left a fresh mug on my desk with a note:
Thought you might need this. Love, A.