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Something in my chest cracks at his words, which land exactly where he wants them to. It bothers me that after last night—after the whiskey, after the accusations I hurled at him like they were weapons—this is what I needed to hear.
The only thing that should offer me relief is good news about Mom. Not… reassurances from Domenico. Yet my body reacts before my brain can catch up, and I push up on my tiptoes so I can kiss my husband.
My lips find his, and for one second, he goes completely still, and I think I’ve made a mistake. But when his hand moves to the back of my neck, and he kisses me back with a hunger that makes my knees weak, I sigh happily into his mouth.
It lasts three seconds. Four, maybe. Then I pull back, my heart hammering against my ribs, and the look in his eyes is enough to make me want to kiss him again.
“I’m still angry,” I inform him. If I’m being honest, I’m mostly saying it to remind myself.
“I know.” The corner of his mouth twitches. “You can be angry and kiss me. The two aren’t mutually exclusive.”
With a sharp nod, I turn and walk toward the room Dr. Morgan’s waiting in. I need to get in there before I can examine the warm, sinking feeling in my stomach that has nothing to do with the hangover and everything to do with the man behind me.
Dr. Morgan doesn’t stand when we enter. She just looks up from her laptop, adjusts her glasses, and gestures to the two empty chairs across from her with the impatience of someone who’s been kept waiting.
The consultation room is exactly what you’d expect: beige walls and a small round table that forces everyone to sit too close. Domenico pulls out a chair for me, and I sink into it, my legs grateful for the rest.
He takes the seat beside me, close enough that our arms touch, and under the table, his hand finds mine. I squeeze his fingers once in a silent thanks for being here.
Dr. Morgan places both hands flat on the table. Her nails are short, unpainted. Practical. “I want your mother transferred to Langford Neurological Institute,” she says, not bothering to waste time on pleasantries like saying hello. “Today, if possible. I’ve already arranged a bed.”
I blink. “Langford?” I repeat, not sure if I heard her correctly.
“Yes, Langford,” she confirms. “I work directly with their long-term severe brain injury unit. Which would be perfect, as I’d like to have your mom under my personal supervision for approximately two weeks while I conduct a more extensive evaluation.”
My brain’s still stuck on the Langford of it all. There’s no way I can afford that place. Langford is Boston’s super-exclusive and prestigious hospital for the rich and the famous. It’s not for everyday people. And even if you can afford it, you need recommendations and connections.
Domenico shifts closer until his lips graze the shell of my ear. “If you’re worried about the money—”
“Of course I’m worried about the money,” I whisper, interrupting him.
“Don’t be,” he murmurs, low enough for my ears only. Then he straightens and looks at Dr. Morgan. “Sounds good.”
I swallow thickly, knowing I should count my blessings for this boon. But still, I can’t help asking, “Why?” The word comes out sharper than I intend. “What’s wrong with her care here?”
Something shifts in Dr. Morgan’s expression. Not warmth—she doesn’t seem capable of that—but a flicker of something that might be respect.
“There are parts of your mother’s history, treatment, and current condition that don’t fit together cleanly.” She reaches for a folder and opens it. “After reviewing her records and speaking with the nursing staff, I don’t trust this hospital.”
The folder contains papers. Lots of them. Authorization forms, treatment plans, and medication schedules. I notice each one says NovaGen Pharmaceuticals at the top. But when Dr. Morgan slides several across the table toward me, I focus on the signatures at the bottom of each page.
I know that handwriting. Slanted and messy, the H in Harry looped too wide, the D in Adams dragging into the next line like he was in a hurry or drunk, or both. My dad’s signature.
My throat tightens. “These are my dad’s.”
“Yes.” Dr. Morgan watches my face with the focus of someone reading a particularly dense medical chart. “He’s been authorizing your mother’s care since the accident.”
“I know that.” I swallow. “What am I supposed to be seeing here?”
She taps one of the forms with her index finger. A medication authorization. Dates, dosages, names I can’t pronounce. “Certain medications your mother received raise questions. The timing also concerns me.” She pauses, adjusts her glasses. “There appears to have been a change after Mr. DeLuca assumed control of your mom’s medical expenses.”
The room goes very, very, very quiet.
I turn to Domenico. My neck moves slowly, as if I’m underwater.
He took control of my mom’s care and didn’t tell me. Was this part of the deal Dad made when he sold me? No, it can’t have been. Or maybe… is this why he wanted me to seal the deal as fast as possible?
Pain lances through my heart, hitting me so fast it steals my breath. Though it starts in my chest, it quickly radiates outward, hot and sharp. The hangover, the lack of sleep, the fear for Mom—all of it crashes into this betrayal like a wave hitting a breakwall.
