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He shakes his head ruefully. “But this place is different. Trust me. It’s a small, private facility out in a small town located in the middle of nowhere, US of A. It’s not exactly a rehab center for your addiction but a place to heal your physical and emotional wounds. Just what you need to focus on recovering and getting better.”
He’s fucking kidding, right? How in the world am I supposed to get better when he’s sending me to . . . “Where am I going again?” I ask out loud.
“It’s a specialized center for people like you who’ve suffered life-changing accidents,” he explains patiently. “They have physical, occupational, and other therapies. Their holistic approach means you can handle your recovery without the need for pain meds.”
This sounds worse than any other place I’ve tried before. If my body is ready to give up, I’m okay with that. I’d rather just go home and have the nurses administer morphine as needed. But then, I recall that dream I had while I was in surgery. Zane telling me I couldn’t give up, that it was time to get my fucking act together and make good on my promises.
“She needs you,” he said in that dream, which honestly I thought had been my new reality. I was finally there, joining him in the afterlife. The guy was insistent, telling me that I had fucked up all these years, but I had to be there for her. If she ever sees me again, she might try to kill me with her own bare hands. But maybe it’s time to get better and at least make sure life hasn’t screwed her the way I’ve fucked myself.
I sigh, wincing at the spike of pain it causes. “What’s the point?” I rasp hoarsely. “We’ve tried this before . . .”
My voice trails off, the effort to speak proving too much for my raw throat. Ellington squeezes my shoulder gently, mindful of my injuries.
“The point is we’re not giving up on you. Not now, not ever,” he says firmly. “This time, your entire family will be there, supporting you every step of the way.”
I try to snort in skepticism, but it comes out as more of a choked cough that wracks my broken ribs with fresh agony. I glance at my father. Instead of his usual scowl of disappointment, he’s looking at me with deep concern and fear in his eyes. Not the typical: I’m-pissed-at-you-and-if-next-time-you-die-I-won’t-even-bring-flowers-to-your-grave. No. This time he’s looking at me with real anguish, like he knows this is my last chance.
Though I doubt it will work, I give the faintest nod possible. All I can do is try once more. If not for myself, then for my family.
Chapter Three
Seraphina
I sit at my desk in the small office at the back of the rehab center, staring blindly at the computer screen. The clicks of the keyboard and murmurs of conversation from the front reception area provide white noise as I try to wrap my mind around our current situation—again.
It’s like we try to fix one thing and ten more come out. No wonder I had to say yes to the most stupid proposal I’ve ever received in my entire career: “We’ll give you money to fix your center, pay the debts, and even help with your marketing if you accept our client.”
Though it sounds like a too-good-to-be-true situation, I accepted. We would be stupid to refuse an offer like that when we’re so desperate.
Desperate.
Have I mentioned how desperately screwed we are?
A cup of cold tea sits forgotten by my elbow as I concentrate on the schedule once more. We can only use three staff members—all forced to sign NDAs, forbidden from assisting other patients until His Royal Highness, the entitled celebrity asshole currently upending my life, is ready to depart all well and restored back to health.
With a heavy exhale, I make another adjustment, already mourning my displaced patients. But for now, we have to bend like reeds—no matter how much it grates on me to cater to some spoiled, famous brat who can’t get his act together.
If this keeps our doors open, I have to swallow my pride and frustration. Okay, maybe I’m being too harsh on the man, but we’re jumping through too many hoops for him.
“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” I mutter under my breath.
I rub my temples, trying to ward off a stressful headache as I make yet another adjustment to the impossible schedule. We might need to hire another physical therapist on top of the one who’s starting tomorrow.
Blythe looks up from her table. She’s been sitting across from me doing her own reorganization. “This should serve as a lesson, my overachieving friend,” she says pointedly.
“A lesson for what?” I ask defensively.
“You’re not only a physical therapist, but you’re certified in yoga, massage, reiki . . . it’s like having four services in one,” she explains with a shrug as if to say she can’t help our situation.
In conclusion, I did this to myself. Back then, I was trying to save money, now . . . well, I’m again trying to save this place. Is it even worth it? I could just get a regular job and let it go like everything else in my life.
I glare at her, even though deep down I know she’s right. With a frustrated sigh, I turn back to the impossible schedule, resigning myself for what’s to come.
“So, have you found out who’s coming to make our life miserable?” I ask.
“You have too little faith when it comes to our miracle client,” Blythe chides gently from across the desk without looking up from the screen. “Celebrities are just human beings like you and me. Anything you see online is exaggerated fiction.”
Clearly, she’s never actually dealt with one in person before. Some are nice, and down to earth. Others are entitled, temperamental divas . . . though admittedly, not all of them fit the bad stereotypes. It’s hard not to feel bitter about catering to one when we’re struggling.
