Page 55

When the time is right, I’ll give him shit for needing a plastic surgeon, but it won’t be right for a long, long while.

Liam slides his phone from his pocket, thumbs the screen, and walks away without another word.

I hope he’s getting an update on my husband. Why haven’t we heard anything?

I fall asleep before he returns, unable to keep my eyes open anymore. Long day, adrenaline, and stress form a nauseating cocktail that I’m helpless to overcome.

I awaken several hours later, wishing I’d rethought the decision to contort myself into the shape of a square hospital chair when I passed out .

It’s well over eight hours later when Cian wanders out to the waiting room where Liam, Mom, and I are fighting to stay calm. He looks ready to faceplant in exhaustion.

I rush him, wrapping him up in my arms, needing for one moment to have him all to myself. “You came for me.” The words seem to come from nowhere. Just like the tears that roll down my face.

Cian squeezes me and looks over my head to our brother. Something passes between them that I’m too emotional to figure out and too exhausted to care about. He pulls back to look at me, really look at me, and boops my nose. That causes the tears to stream.

My brother is safe.

He isn’t dead.

And I’m not the reason he knows the feel of copper and lead in his body.

Our moment is over too quickly and we’re surrounded by Liam and Mom. She runs her fingertips delicately down the side of his face, all the while the color drains from hers. “Cian,” she starts on a choke. “Oh, my love. I can’t believe this happened to you.”

His one good eye slices to her. His lips remain closed. I can’t imagine the pain he’s in. To speak, to breathe. God forbid he wants to clench his teeth or do anything to express dissatisfaction.

He wraps me under his arm, pulling my front to his side. It’s awkward and uncomfortable. His hand is too tight, but it’s like he needs me for his own strength.

“Do you want to come sit?” Mom asks.

“You’re coming to my house.” I say. “I’m not asking. I’m telling you. I’m no Florence Nightingale, but we have great espresso and Corinne can make any soup you want.” And it’s safe. “Please. Just for a few days. For me.”

His face is mottled and swollen. He looks terrible. He nods once as if it’s all he has left in the tank.

“And I can drive you to your appointments.”

The look he gives me is comical in its panic.

“Don’t even start with me. It’s been years since I hit anything, and as long as I’m caffeinated, you’ll be fine.” I stretch out the I in fine.

His expression doesn’t change.

When he’s home with me, we can talk freely. How he came to save me. How he came because I needed him.

Mom’s sniffling breaks our moment.

“What?” Liam interjects. He has no soft spot, except for me. Not even for Mom.

“My babies love each other and take care of each other. Ayla was hurt. Now Cian is hurt. It’s terrifying as a mom to not be able to protect your kids.”

And, as always, Liam drops the hammer. “We need protection from Dad. Did you miss that part?”

Ouch.

I flinch. Mom flinches. Cian stares straight ahead.

Liam, though, holds Mom’s eyes in a most painful way, like holding a mirror to her so she can’t deny reality. “Ayla’s ‘accident’ was because of Dad. Or we can assume. Cian’s injuries definitely were.”

Mom puts her trembling hands to her face and sobs into them, her body shaking with the force of the motion.

Cian, whose natural tendency would be to protect Mom from this, stands silently staring at her. He finally folds into a chair across from her and pats the seat next to it, a silent request for me to join him.

“Mom?” I call, breaking the tension of Liam’s statement and the fact that he left her to wallow in it with no reprieve. “We didn’t get to talk at Anschutz. Why didn’t you tell us about your diagnosis?”

Her head snaps up, and Cian’s one eye lasers in on me.

She shrugs and stares off.

“Mom.” My voice is more urgent. “We deserve to know. I deserve to know.”

After a long moment, she begins quietly, “At first it was just shock. Everything was going so great for us personally and with the business.” Her eyes dart to my brother at my side. “Everyone was happy. ”

A small sound escapes Cian’s lips followed quickly by a low moan.

“I was shocked. Your father was beside himself. He became so protective, too protective. I could barely breathe with how much he tried to protect me from… everything. Eventually, to be quite frank, I decided I’d rather live in denial.

” She lifts her chin in an almost defiant gesture.

“I didn’t want to live with a condition that’s degenerative.

I don’t want to consider a wheelchair. Not when I’m ninety, much less at sixty.

I put all my focus into pretending my body wasn’t fighting me just because it could. ”

I say nothing, letting her get it all out.

“We knew it wasn’t hereditary. This wouldn’t impact any of you.

Except for the three of you watching me deteriorate.

But aging does that to some anyway, so maybe we could sweep it under the rug.

Maybe the tremors could be muscle weakness, and the stumbling could be inner ear issues.

Why must I tell you? Why should I watch you worry or have you helping me like a child? ”

Cian exhales from beside me, and I place a hand on his knee to squeeze. I have no clue what he wants to say, how he feels, what’s running through his mind. But fuck if I’m going to make him expend that kind of energy on this conversation.

“When your father learned of the trial—” She stares off, lost in thought or memory.

“He recommended me for it. He begged. I was declined and added to the waitlist. Your dad knew Christian from his business dealings. He knew he was single and powerful and had sway with the board at Anschutz. He approached you.” She stops as if that’s the end of the tale.

“And?” My eyes must be bulging from my head.

“Are you going to make me say it?”

“Well, since I don’t know the story, and apparently Dad—with your what… permission or acquiescence or blessing—set me up to bait a man, I fucking deserve to know.” My voice is rising, and I give zero shits who overhears.

“You don’t get it.”

Cian squeezes my knee. I have no clue what he’s communicating, and I don’t care .

“Did you two ask me to date someone, fuck someone, marry someone to get you on a trial?”

“Ayla!”

“Mom, you made me a high-dollar hooker. I deserve to have the answer.”

“She deserves to know, Janie.” My husband’s authoritative voice rings out behind me. “And so do I.”