Chapter 32
THE UNIVERSE OF THREE
Heaven and home are where we are
Della
After two nights of oscillating between my bed, his bed, and the chair, the morning finds me head pressed into the mattress by his side, fingers stiff from hours of holding on.
A gentle squeeze, more a whisper of contact than a real touch, sends a warm shiver through my body.
For a second, I think I’m dreaming.
Then I feel it again but, this time, it’s clear. His fingers twitch against my palm.
My head snaps up. Dawn pours gray light over everything. The monitors keep doing their thing, but now they beep a little faster.
I look at him and, for a second. I am the one who cannot breathe.
He is waking up. Dorian opens his eyes. Still the darkest eyes I’ve ever known... and they find me instantly.
"Dorian," I choke out, scrambling up from the chair, still holding his hand.
He tries to speak, but the tube is still there.
“Don’t try to talk, I’ll call the nurse.”
His fingers tighten around mine, and in that moment, his eyes say more than any words could.
I press the button, and within minutes, a quiet storm of movement fills the room. The nurses check him and start the protocol of removing the tube. It is quick but clearly uncomfortable, and Dorian faces it with just a frown.
Only after the nurses leave and he’s positioned in a more upright position, I lean over him, my hands hovering over his chest, terrified to touch him but desperate to feel him.
"You’re back. Oh, God, you’re back."
“Della.”
His voice is a wreck—a raspy, broken sound that scrapes against the silence—but it’s the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard.
He tries to take a breath, wincing as his ribs press against the bandages, but his gaze never leaves mine. He lifts his hand, the IV lines swaying, and reaches for my face. His thumb brushes my cheek, wiping away a tear I didn't even feel fall.
"I heard you," he whispers. "I would have left an angel wingless…” He pauses, his voices gaining strength. “Just to come back to you."
"Well, then,” I breathe, smiling through the tears, “it’s a good thing you came back and didn’t cause trouble in heaven.”
“You are the only angel I need,” he murmurs, his eyes heavy but burning with that familiar intensity. "Stay with me, Della.”
“I am not leaving, Dorian," I whisper, pressing my face into his palm, kissing the lifeline there. “Not anymore.”
Tears fall in silent, single rivers. A fragile smile blooms on my lips as Dorian’s eyes glisten—mirroring my own tears.
We cry and smile in the same heartbeat… two souls touching, remembering each other.
* * *
The following days dissolve into a blur of white coats, beeping machines, and a parade of faces.
Once the tube was out and the fever broke for good, Dorian Marshall returned with a vengeance.
He was a terrible patient—impatient, demanding, and prowling the small confines of the suite like a caged panther the moment Dr. Bakkal allowed him to stand.
He wanted to leave the hospital as soon as possible, and he makes sure everyone knows it.
David and Flor were a constant presence, taking shifts to guard the door or just sit with us. Even Dorian’s mother flies in for a brief, but relieved visit.
The Police also come and I am so nervous my hands shake. But Dorian and David handle it with smooth, practiced ease. They mention nothing about Andy. It was just an attack, a robbery gone wrong, perpetrator unknown. I don’t ask for the details; I don’t want to know them.
Amidst this, I hold a secret. It sits heavy and warm in my belly.
I’ve managed to hide the morning queasiness—mercifully mild so far—by eating my meals in the cafeteria or with David and Flor, away from Dorian’s sharp eyes.
I want to tell Dorian so much. I almost do; a dozen times. But every time I opened my mouth, a nurse walks in to check his vitals, or David arrives with legal papers, or Dorian winces from a spasm of pain, or something else happens.
I can’t do it here. Not in this sterile place where death knocked so recently.
I need us. Just us.
But I also need to tell someone, someone who understands. I need to say it out loud to make it real. So, while I’m in the cafeteria, getting a warm chocolate, I call my sister.
She answers quickly, like she’s waiting for my call.
“Sorela, how are you? Is Dorian feeling better?”
“Hey! Yes, thank you. He can stand now and we’ll probably leave the hospital in a day or two. He is acting like a caged wild animal.”
“I can only imagine” Alexandra says, and I can hear the smile in her voice.
“Sorelina, I need to tell you something,” I whisper, glancing around to make sure I am alone. “But you can't tell Dorian. Not yet. I need to tell him myself.”
My sisters’ voice becomes worried. "Is it bad news?”
“No,” I say, a smile breaking through the exhaustion. “It's... impossible news.”
I take a deep breath and place my hand on my stomach, shielding it.
“I'm pregnant.”
The silence lasts three seconds and then...
“Della, this is amazing…” Alexandra says, her voice pitching up with cheer before faltering. "Are you sure? The doctors said..." she whispers, not trying to disappoint me but remembering that awful day at the hospital, years ago.
“They were wrong,” I say, the tears spilling over again. “Or maybe... maybe we just needed a miracle.”
“Sorela, I’m so happy for you. For both of you.” Alexandra’s voice is a mix of joy and tears. “Oh, I hate this ocean. I wish I was there, with you, to give you a hug.”
“I know. I wish you were here, too, Sorelina.” I reply.
I ask her about her and her life with Javier and Eleni but she smoothly avoids the answer and changes the subject back to me. I let it slide, this time.
So, we talk for a while more about number of weeks, and symptoms, and what to expect. She tells me how to keep it private as much as possible, and to take good care of myself.
And I am so grateful to have a sister who can share her experience as a young mom.
Standing here, five years later, in another hospital, on another continent, I finally let myself believe it fully.
It’s not a dream anymore. It’s real.
And I am not alone.
* * *
Dorian
By the morning of the tenth day, I am done. I am finished with the white walls, the smell of antiseptic, and the constant interruptions.
“If I have to stare at these four white walls for one more day, or take one more slow lap, relying on this flimsy walker, I am going to buy this hospital just to walk out the front door right now.” I grumble, sitting on the edge of the bed, fully dressed in fresh clothes David brought.
Dr. Bakkal walks in, looking like she has aged five years in the last week dealing with me. She probably has.
"Alright, Mr. Marshall," she sighs, checking my chart one last time. "Your incision is healing beautifully. Your blood counts are near normal. You are fever-free."
"So, I'm leaving," I state.
"You are being discharged," she corrects firmly. "But with strict protocols. No lifting anything heavier than a gallon of milk for six weeks. No driving for two weeks. You need to keep the wound dry and clean. And if you feel any fever, you call us immediately."
"Understood," I say, standing up too quickly.
"I'm fine," I murmur to her, covering her hand with mine. "I'm ready."
I sway slightly, gritting my teeth against the wave of dizziness and Della is at my side, instantly.
She hasn't left my side these days. She has slept in that uncomfortable cot, and held my hand through the fever dreams. She looks pale, with dark circles under her eyes that kill me.
I can tell she wants to talk—really talk—but she can’t do it here.
I need to get her out. I’m doing this for both of us.
“We have a wheelchair,” Dr. Bakkal says. “Hospital policy.”
I open my mouth to argue, but Della looks at me.
“Dorian,” she says softly, squeezing my hand. “Please. For me. Just to the door.”
My resistance crumbles. For her, I would crawl. I look at her, nod once and sit in the chair.
“Let’s go.” I can’t wait to show her the house. Our house.
David sent a driver, as I required, and now he is waiting at the curb with the black SUV. The Chicago air is crisp, and after ten days of recycled air, it smells like freedom.
The driver helps me into the backseat. I settle in beside Della and let out a long breath, leaning my head back against the headrest. My hand immediately seeks hers, lacing our fingers together.
“Home?” she asks gently, looking at me with concern. “To the Penthouse?”
I look at her, watching the way the sunlight catches the worry in her eyes. I’m about to erase that look.
“No,” I whisper, a smile finally breaking through my exhaustion. My thumb traces the inside of her wrist, feeling her pulse. “I have a surprise for you.”
* * *
Della
The SUV turns off the busy city streets, winding deeper into a tree-lined avenues and the stately, quiet elegance of old Lincoln Park neighborhood.
The driver slows the car, pulling up to the curb on a quiet street.
“We're here, Mr. Marshall” the driver says, parking the car.
I look out the window and gasp.
A beautiful two-story stone estate sits set back from the road, its main entrance marked by a rounded, ornate stone archway. A small flower bed blooms under the bay window. It looks warm, and charming yet solid. A home.
But what catches my breath isn't the architecture; it is the massive, ancient oak tree in the front yard. Its branches spread wide like protective arms, casting dappled shadows on the lawn.
And hanging from one of the lower branches is a wooden swing, swaying gently in the breeze.
“Dorian,” I whisper, turning to him. “Where are we?”
“We’re home,” he says simply.
We get out of the car and walk towards the house.
“You bought a house,” I say, looking from the swing to his face.
“It’s not just a house,” he corrects, his voice rough with emotion. "It’s our house. I knew it, felt it the moment I saw that swing... and I saw you."