43. Lourdes
Lourdes
Iwake up in the luxurious hotel bed. The bed where Ares made love to me over and over again throughout the night. I finally feel like I belong to him on my terms.
But I’m alone, and now I can’t stand being without him.
I slip on a shirt of his from yesterday. The smell of his cologne teases me as I peek into the hallway that connects the suite bedrooms to the living room area. I hear his voice and expect to find him on the phone, back to work, ruling his kingdom.
Approaching the living room, I stop when I hear the low murmur of two male voices beyond the partially closed doors to this hallway. I assume he’s got someone on speaker and that it’s business, something separate from me.
No. The voice isn’t from a speaker. There is a man sitting there.
And as I look closer into the living room, I see folders and documents spread across the room’s meeting table.
None of it fully connects with what my eyes are seeing until I catch my sister’s photograph dangling, clipped to one open folder.
The air in my lungs thins out.
“You’re a physician,” Ares says to the man. “What do these medical records tell you?”
“Long-term residential stabilization is not the aggressive neuro-rehabilitative intervention this patient needs,” an older man in a suit and tie seated across from Ares says in a measured clinical voice.
My hands begin to tremble. I had been fine with Ares making calls, sending medical records, and leveraging his influence across cities and continents for Sandrine.
That’s who he is. And I agreed to be part of his world.
What I wasn’t prepared for was waking to find my sister’s life being discussed without me.
When I take another step forward, the movement registers in Ares’s peripheral vision. He turns his head, and our eyes lock as I stand there wearing only his shirt. Whatever expression crosses my face is enough to make him rise instantly from his chair. Possibly more than my bare wobbly legs.
“Lourdes,” he says, already obliterating the space between us, already reading my sanity fracturing. “You’re not dressed.”
“You flew a doctor here?” I manage, keeping my voice low even as a sharp bite to betrayal twists in my chest. “Without discussing it with me?”
He reaches for me but doesn’t touch me immediately. He wisely understands that I need the space to speak before I can bear his hands on me.
“You were asleep,” he answers evenly.
“You don’t make decisions about my sister without me,” I say, my hands balled into fists.
“You’ve been through so much.” He gently squeezes my shoulder.
Didn’t stop you from fucking me senseless last night.
“You don’t understand,” I say, going for that lethal calm I learned from him. “Her real identity is a secret. I don’t know why. I don’t know who or what my father was protecting her from. But I know it matters. She can’t be exposed, Ares.”
“Doctors swear privacy oaths.” He takes my hand now.
By the steadiness in his expression, it’s not to restrain me or to silence me but to simply guide me toward the table and be part of the discussion.
“Charles, this is my future wife, Lourdes, the patient’s sister,” Ares says, his voice dripping with possession. “You will address her directly.”
The man, who I recognize as Dr. Charles Masters, the head of neurology at the New York Center for Adults with Disabilities, rises from his chair. “Nice to meet you, Lourdes.”
“Hello,” I say, gob-smacked.
Ares draws out a seat from the meeting table and waits for me to sit before he does. “Now start over, Dr. Masters. Please, from the beginning.”
The neurosurgeon summarizes his opinion of my sister’s initial injuries and her progress over the last five years. Or lack of. Referencing recent CAT scans in her file, he explains she’s plateaued in her progress. And that often occurs with long-term stabilization without targeted rehabilitation.
I pull my hands into my lap. “I was right, she’s moving backward?”
“Correct.” He continues on, discussing other patients he’s treated, keeping their identities confidential.
Veterans who returned from war with traumatic brain injuries, like Sandrine, who also relearned to speak and walk, athletes who rebuilt coordination after similar catastrophic injuries, and how structured programs that do more than house a patient but actively engage the brain to repair itself, led to their recoveries.
“In conclusion, it’s my professional opinion that your sister is not beyond improvement.” Dr. Masters meets my eyes, his tone firm but not falsely optimistic. “She has been stabilized. She’s not received the necessary treatment to restore her memory.”
For years, I measured hope in teaspoons, convincing myself that comfort was the ceiling. A safe bed, meals, and warmth. Even her classes are a luxury I paid for with what little I was able to save.
Ares’s hand closes around mine, solid and warm. “Lourdes is to be my wife in a few weeks,” he says to Dr. Masters, sounding proud. “Your patient is my family. I expect a comprehensive evaluation, a structured rehabilitation plan, and measurable progress. Spare no resource or expense.”
There is no bluster in his tone. This is not another negotiation. This is something he wants and won’t take no for an answer.
I am to be his wife.
I know what this will cost me. Marry Ares Zervas and my sister will be taken care of. I have nothing else to offer. He wants me. Just me.
I’ll take it as it comes. Adjust to my new life while Sandrine gets the treatment she needs for a better one. I’ll call Elodie in a few days and break the news that we won’t be moving to Arizona.
After I quickly shower, I choose a pair of dress slacks and a sweater from the clothes Ares brought me.
He takes the three of us to the facility in his rented limo and agrees to wait in the car.
He adorably bundles me up in a scarf that he packed for me, too.
Now the Chicago winter wind won’t turn me into a solid block of ice.
“Remember, please call her Jessica,” I murmur to Dr. Masters as we approach her room. “Her name was changed. I hope it’s okay if I don’t reveal her real name to you.”
He nods with a thoughtful gaze toward me. “Eventually reintroducing her given name may stimulate associative memory. That must be done strategically. From what I’ve read in her patient chart, she’s not ready yet.”
When we enter the common room, Sandrine is holding a puzzle piece and staring at a partially completed puzzle on an activity table. Her expression shifts to elation when she snaps in the piece.
I move toward her. “Morning, sweetie.”
“Lourdes,” she says, looking up at me.
I kiss her forehead and sit next to her at the table. “Jess, this is Dr. Masters, a specialist from New York. He wanted to meet you.”
He sits on the other side of my sister, and I watch as he gently coaxes information from her with strategic questions. My hand hovers over my phone with the impulse to text Ares to come inside. I feel empty without him, but I resist. I need him to know I can handle this.
Later, when Dr. Masters and I step back into the hallway, Ares is waiting in the vestibule. I nearly break into a run. When I reach him, I hug him, overwhelmed with tears.
“How’d it go?” His arms close around me.
“It went great.” I look up at him, smiling, feeling the best I’ve felt in a really long time.
“I have what I need,” Dr. Masters says, checking his watch. “However, I must get back to New York as soon as possible, Mr. Zervas.”
“I will ready my jet for you, Charles,” Ares says and takes out his phone.
“Are you going back to New York, too?” I ask him, my voice breaking.
With a phone to his ear, he leans forward and brushes a kiss on my mouth. “Not without you.”