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“Everyone out,” the doctor demands. “I’m calling security if needed.”
Her father snorts, a sound filled with bitterness. “No need to. I’m leaving. She’s not mine anyway.” His parting glance at Ameline is something that looks a lot like hate. “I’ll call my lawyer. Since you’re not my daughter, I won’t be paying for your tuition or rent anymore. You’ll have to figure out something on your own. You have a week to vacate my studio.”
With that, he turns on his heel and stalks out without another word. Helen smirks before she saunters behind him, leaving Ameline shell-shocked.
I want to comfort her, but I can’t. The doctor pushes me out of the way because they need to check on her. My mind is racing wondering what’s just happened. There’s always been animosity between Helen and her, but this . . . is it true?
And what is she supposed to do now?
Chapter Thirty-One
Ameline
My eyelids flutter open. The harsh glow of fluorescent lights above me slice through the haze clouding my mind.
Where am I?
It doesn’t take me long to remember that I’m in a hospital bed, and reality feels distant, almost like I’m suspended somewhere between what’s real and a parallel world I can’t quite grasp. The scent of antiseptics mingles with the delicate fragrance of flowers from a bouquet near my window, creating a strange but comforting blend.
My fingers lightly brush over the hospital sheets, their texture slightly rough under my touch. It’s a small but grounding sensation after the whirlwind of events that have blurred together. How long have I been here?
Has it been a day or more?Too much has transpired today—or is it yesterday now? Time slips away from me.
The news about my mom, her illness, and the need for a bone marrow transplant are the first issues that come to mind. Though, right after that appears the image of my father telling me I’m not his.
The revelation about my dad—or rather, the man I’ve always known as Dad—sends my thoughts spinning. The room seems to shift around me. The soft rhythmic beeps from the machine become faster and louder.
“Calm down, baby,” Gabe’s voice comes first before he grasps my hand. His calloused fingers from years of playing guitar entwined with mine. His reassuring touch calms me down almost immediately.
“Ameline?” His voice, rough with a mix of worry and care, breaks the silence. “Can you hear me?”
I attempt to respond, but my mouth is dry, my tongue rough and uncooperative. With effort, I manage a faint nod.
As Gabe lets out a sigh of relief, he leans in closer, gently pressing my hand against the rough stubble on his cheek. His familiar, woodsy scent immediately surrounds me, making me feel calmer, protected.
“You had me worried,” he murmurs, kissing the back of my hand. “After your dad visited, you had another seizure. The doctors gave you a sedative and you’ve been sleeping for most of the day.”
The mention of a seizure jolts a memory back into focus—dots like lights flickering similar to a strobe, my vision tunneling, and an overwhelming headache. And then, nothing but engulfing darkness.
The revelation that my father is not my father comes back. The realization cuts through me, sharp and painful. I close my eyes, trying to shut out the reality, but tears escape, burning hot as they trail down my cheeks.
“Dad,” I finally manage to say with a sob.
Gabe smooths back my hair. “Shhh. I know, baby. I’m so sorry.” His voice cracks. “I’m sure there’s an explanation. He’s your father, and he loves you.”
Does he? Because I remember Dad’s words, his disdain.
“It’ll be okay,” Gabe repeats.
I want to believe him, but all I do is turn into his embrace. My sobs muffled against the fabric of his shirt. He holds me softly, rocking slightly, allowing me to release the pent-up torrent of grief and confusion. And though the world has tilted off its axis, Gabe’s strong arms keep me tethered.
The moment is broken by the soft click of the door. I lift my head, wiping my eyes, as Dr. Levinson enters. He holds a clipboard.
“We got your results,” he states. The room shifts subtly with his words, the air charged with a seriousness that tightens a knot of anxiety in my stomach.
“It’s just a migraine,” I say what I’ve been telling everyone and myself since they started.
Dr. Levinson meets my gaze, his expression somber. “I wish it were that simple,” he says, and those words alone are enough to send a chill down my spine.
