Chapter 51
The morning air in the highlands was crisp, biting through the thin fabric of my athletic gear. Five days ago, Ara couldn't stand without a metal pole for support. Today, she was moving.
“Deep breaths, Ara. Don’t fight the air, let it in,” I urged in a low voice, being a steady anchor beside her.
We weren’t sprinting. It was a slow, rhythmic jog along the paved perimeter of the estate, but every step felt like a victory over the fog the doctor had put her in.
The Rehab nurses sat in the far corner under the shade, documenting her progress. My arm was linked firmly with hers, keeping her upright when her balance wavered.
"The doctor was right about your metabolism," I noted, my voice low in the quiet air. "You're burning through the lethargy fast."
"I have to," Ara replied, her stride lengthening as she leaned into my side. "I hate feeling like I’m trapped in my own skin. I want to feel the ground under my feet without wondering if it's going to swallow me whole."
I tightened my grip on her arm, pulling her slightly closer. "It won't. I'm holding the ground for you."
She slowed her pace, eventually coming to a stop near a stone bench. She didn't snap at me for the protective comment. Instead, she looked at me with those emerald eyes—clearer now, the grey haze of the sedatives almost entirely gone.
"You're always doing that," she whispered. "Holding everything up. Don't you ever get tired?"
I looked at her, seeing the girl who had hugged me in the garden, the one who called me 'Old Man' as a shield but held onto my shirt like a lifeline. "Only when you're not in sight, cara."
The tension between us shifted from clinical to something heavy and magnetic. The "three-week" recovery timeline the doctor gave us was moving fast, and as her body healed, the distance I was trying to keep was becoming impossible to maintain.
What an animal I am, trying to pounce on her.
After three more laps, we slowed to a stop near the edge of the terrace. Ara’s breath came in deep, even cycles. She leaned against a stone pillar; her face flushed with a healthy glow that made the emerald of her eyes finally pop again.
I stood beside her, my hand hovering near the small of her back—not touching, but there if she needed the support.
"You're doing well, Ara," I said, watching her. "Soon you'll be back to the syndicate."
Before she could respond, the sound of feminine laughter drifted from the veranda. Asvika and Sanaa appeared, their faces lighting up the second they saw her standing on her own two feet, dressed in athletic gear instead of a hospital gown.
"Look at you!" Sanaa cried, rushing over but keeping a respectful distance from me. "Our girl is back! We were starting to think Dominic was just keeping you as a very pretty, very sleepy trophy."
“Thank you, Dominic. It's always been you.” Sanna said as she gave me a light hug, and Asvika followed suit.
Ara gave a tight smile; Sanaa squeezed her hand with the look of a best friend who had yearned for her friend. "Not a trophy. Just a slow learner."
She looked around the group, her smile faltering slightly as she noticed one person missing. "Where’s Mother?"
"She had to head back this morning, Ara. She said the House of Versace doesn't run itself, especially with those men and the others circling like vultures. She’s holding the fort."
A look of deep understanding crossed Ara’s face. She didn't look disappointed; she looked proud. "Of course she is. Someone has to keep the throne warm while I’m 'recovering.'"
She turned to look at me, a silent acknowledgment passing between us. She knew that her safety here was a luxury, one paid for by the women who were fighting the political battles back home.
"She’s a Versace," Ara murmured, almost to herself. "She knows that when the head is away, the hands have to stay busy."
They joined us for lunch, and they both chattered while I focused on my phone. Ara barely said any words.
"Vee—" Sanaa reached out, her hand moving toward Ara’s arm in a gesture of simple affection.
The reaction was instantaneous.
Ara didn't just pull away; she recoiled as if Sanaa’s touch was a hot iron. Her chair screeched against the marble, and in her haste, her hand struck her bowl. The warm soup cascaded over the silk of her dress, a dark stain spreading like an insult across the expensive fabric.
"Oh my!" Sanaa gasped, her hand frozen in mid-air, her expression wounded.
The room went dead silent. I looked up from my phone, my gaze snapping to Ara. She stood abruptly, her face pale, her eyes wide and darting around like a trapped animal’s.
"I'll be right back," Ara choked out, not looking at anyone. She turned and vanished toward the kitchen, her silhouette stiff and trembling.
"I’ll go help her out," I said, my voice leaving no room for argument. I stood up, giving Sanaa a brief look that told her to stay put, and followed the sound of the swinging kitchen doors.
I found Ara leaning against the industrial stainless-steel counter. She wasn't cleaning the dress. She was staring at her hands, which were shaking so violently they looked blurred.
I didn't say anything at first. I slowly moved into her space, a solid, silent presence, grabbed a clean, damp towel and reached for her hand.
"Don't," she whispered, but she didn't pull away when I took her wrist.
I began to wipe the soup from her fingers with slow, deliberate strokes. "It’s just a dress, Ara. Sanaa didn't mean anything by it."
"I know she didn't," Ara snapped, her voice cracking.
She looked up at me, her emerald eyes swirling with a confusion that bordered on agony.
"That’s the problem. She touched me and I felt.
.. I felt this wave of pure, cold grudge.
Like she wronged me. Like she betrayed me so deeply that my skin remembers it even if my head doesn't."
She gripped the edge of the counter, her knuckles turning white. "I feel like I am mad at her, Dominic. But I look at her face and I see a friend. Why do I feel like she’s a snake in my house?"
I kept my expression a mask of calm, even as a cold stone settled in my gut. I knew exactly why. I also had a hand in the situation.
But if I told her now, while her mind was still a fractured mess, it would break her.
"Your instincts are sharper than your memory right now," I said, my voice dropping to that low, protective rumble. I leaned in, my shadow shielding her from the door. "Don't fight the feeling, but don't let it drown you either. Your body is trying to tell you something. Just listen."
"But what is it telling me?" she pleaded, stepping closer until her forehead pressed against my chest. "Why can't I remember?"
I rested my hand on the back of her head, drawing her in. "Because some truths are too heavy to carry until you're strong enough to hold them. For now, let me be the one who remembers. You just breathe."
She still seemed to hold a grudge toward Sanaa. I mean, she did spend years thinking she was gone.
I held her shoulders turning her to face me, “Now why bother with what you can't remember and lose making more memories? Your friends are here right now, they've been waiting for your recovery, don't be Versace and make them feel bad.”
She blinked twice, before sighing and nodding. “Okay.”
The dinner ended with a tension that was thick enough to choke on. The awkward conversations and the uneasy smiles made me lose my appetite.
As we walked to the front entrance, Sanaa stepped forward. Her arms were open for a goodbye hug, her eyes still searching mine for the friend she thought she knew.
Ara didn't move and when Sanaa knew she wasn't going to budge she closed the gap hugging her tight. “Can’t wait till you come back home.”
Ara’s eyes softened and her shoulders relaxed, she gave her a small tap on her back. “Me too.”
"Safe travels," I said, both ladies giving me a bright smile as they walked out of the mansion.
As the taillights of their car disappeared down the drive, Ara heaved a loud sigh.
VERSACE
"You're wound up tight enough to snap, Ara," Dominic said, his voice cutting through the darkness.
"I’m fine," I snapped, turning to head back inside.
"No, you aren't. Come with me." He didn't wait for an answer. He took my hand—his grip firm but not crushing—and led me toward the edge of the estate, away from the clinical lights of the mansion and toward the treeline.
We reached a spot where the river cut through the limestone, the water catching the moonlight in a way that made the entire bank seem to glow with an eerie, bioluminescent blue. It was beautiful, but I was too angry to appreciate it.
"Why did you bring me here?" I demanded, spinning to face him. "To show me more things I can't remember. To play the 'Old Man' who knows better than I do?"
"I brought you here because you're vibrating with a grudge you can't name, and it's eating you alive," Dominic growled, stepping into my space. "You flinched at your own friend, Ara. You're fighting shadows."
"Maybe the shadows are there for a reason!" I yelled, my chest heaving. "Maybe I don't want to calm down. Maybe I’m tired of being handled like a piece of glass that’s already broken!"
"We talked about this, Versace!" Dominic’s voice rose to match mine, his eyes dark with a sudden, fierce heat.
He grabbed my upper arms, forcing me to look at him.
"You need to stop fighting me. You need to calm down and let me in.
I am the only one standing between you and the people who actually want to break you. "
"Then stop treating me like a patient!" I stepped closer, my nose inches from his. "Stop being so perfect. Stop being the Don and just be my old man!"
"You think this is easy for me?" he hissed, his grip tightening. "Watching you struggle and not being able to give you the answers because your mind isn't ready? I’m trying to save you, Ara."
"Then save me," I challenged, my voice dropping to a jagged whisper.