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“I’m afraid so.” She takes a long, audible inhale. “You may need to request a social worker sit in on the visit. This kind of information could be too much for her to handle right now.”
So not only did I let Baxter Heron run off with Jordan, now I might just kill his mom?
This whole sick scenario is my fault.
I shouldn’t have given Baxter Heron the option of leaving almost a decade ago.
I wish I’d spared him nothing, outed him and burned everything he owned down to the ground. He wouldn’t have Marissa’s son hostage in the Virgin damn Islands.
“Does she really need to know right now?” I fire back into the phone.
“Well...the nurse in me wants to tell you no. But the mom in me is ready to slap you for trying to weasel out of telling that woman you let someone take her kid while she was in a coma. How could you?” She sighs. “Besides, she’s asking about him.”
“Uh—in fairness, I tried to stop him. I’m not his legal guardian, and your lovely security stopped me from getting physical with the flying monkey who carried him off.”
“Well. Talk to the doctor and see if he thinks she can handle it,” the nurse says.
It’s a statement. She doesn’t leave room for argument.
“I’m coming now,” I grumble.
I stagger down the building’s stairs knowing two things.
One, I have to get Sabrina Bristol out of my system, for both our sakes. I owe her space to move on, and I should be entirely focused on my company and getting Jordan home.
And more importantly, I have no fucking clue how I’m going to get through this next thing I have to do. Not without Brina’s kind heart there to help.* * *Marissa Quail blinks several times when I come into the room. The last time she manages to hold her eyes open.
I don’t know what to say, or even if she knows who I am.
“Hi, Marissa,” I try. “It’s Magnus.”
“Hi.” Her voice is low and dazed. She sounds drugged.
I’m sure she is.
“How are you?” I ask, a stupid question.
She’s still got tubes and wires attached to her body. That alone doesn’t scream well.
She sighs and moans simultaneously. “It hurts. Everything just...hurts.”
“I’m so sorry for what you’ve been through.” Thoughts whip through my brain as I try to think how to help her. “Should I call a nurse? Maybe you could get more painkillers?”
“They told me...I can’t have more. Not yet.” She stares straight ahead. “Thank you for coming.”
I sit down in the chair near her bed, nodding.
“Has anyone talked to you?” I pause, hoping she’ll jump in so I don’t have to say more. “About Jordan?”
“The social worker came. She told me he’s with Baxter and you...you have more information?”
I’m so gutted I can barely speak.
“Baxter found out you were in the hospital. I don’t know how. I haven’t spoken to him in years, not since the day he threatened you, until he showed up here.” Guilt gnaws at me, and I look away, gathering the courage to face her again. “He told Jordan he always wanted to be in his life—the bastard liar—but you wouldn’t let him. It’s my fault—”
“Y-your fault? How is it your...” she trails off, uncomprehending.
Oh, boy.
I close my eyes and squeeze the back of my neck with my hand until it hurts.
“The night you came to the hospital, they called me to pick up Jordan. He was freaked out about leaving, he didn’t know me. I told him I’m his brother to calm him down the next morning. And when he asked where our dad was, I just...I told him he was dead. Never in a million years did I expect Baxter to show up in person. I thought Jordan was better off not knowing.”
“But I’m confused. What does that have to do with Jordan leaving?” She blinks and shifts in her bed. “He should know better.”
“He said you wouldn’t tell him anything and I lied to him. He was confused. He thought Baxter was the only person being honest.”
The reality eviscerates me yet again as I narrate. How the fuck did I let this happen?
She doesn’t speak for a long time. I can’t tell if she’s mad, but she should be.
“Where are they now?” she asks softly.
“Jordan will be back soon.” I rub my throat, my voice so raw. “I have a whole surveillance team watching him, and the best law firm in the country working on getting him back. Your son will be home soon, even if I have to go in with guns blazing. I promise.”
Her eyes narrow. She can tell I’m stalling. “Magnus, where are they?”
“Saint Thomas,” I say.
“Come again?”
“Saint Thomas. Charlotte Amalie, to be specific.” I sigh. “It’s in the US Virgin Islands. But I’m working on getting him home. I know this was my fault—”
