Page 7

Athanasios

CHAPTER SEVEN

That Same Night

"I heard your patient woke up," says my other partner, Lazarus Jasper Seymour—though he goes by L.J. among friends—as we settle in for our weekly dinner.

Together with William, he co-owns the hospital I inherited from my adoptive father, who, like me, is a neurologist, though not a surgeon.

These days, however, my father only runs a private practice. After suffering a stroke, he finally decided to scale back his workload.

"As I said she would," I reply.

"Of course you did." L.J. chuckles. "Where the hell is William? I’m starving."

"Here, bastard. Five minutes late, and your OCD for perfection kicks in, huh?"

"Yes, because I’m the only control freak at this table, my friend. Keep deluding yourself," L.J. retorts.

"So that’s what you call us? Nice way to dress up sociopathy," William teases.

"Speak for yourself. I prefer the term ‘antisocial personality disorder.’"

I shake my head, almost smiling. The dynamic between the two of them is like that of brothers.

"I didn’t come here to argue but to eat and catch up on Sleeping Beauty’s awakening," William says, nodding toward me.

"Don’t be ridiculous. Brooklyn is just a patient," I say, my tone sour.

"A patient you were obsessed with bringing back to life. Could she be a candidate ?"

"Did you come here just to get on my nerves?" I ask.

"No, I’m being serious. You’ve spent more time with Brooklyn Foster in recent weeks than with any other woman in your life. I just thought maybe you’d found the ideal candidate."

"What did I miss?" L.J. asks, having been in Europe giving lectures for nearly two months.

"Nothing. William just decided to spend the evening provoking me, which he should know by now is a waste of time."

"This time, it’s not provocation, I swear," William defends himself. "Or have you two changed your minds about last year’s conversation?"

I try to recall New Year’s Eve, a party on my yacht somewhere off the coast of Italy. The three of us, about to turn forty, as we’re all the same age, had a conversation about the future: marriage and descendants. To be more specific, a wife of convenience.

Considering none of us have fallen in love thus far, the chances of that happening are slim, if not nonexistent. But we all want children, and for that, we need a mother for them.

As a joke, the two of them even suggested surrogacy so we could each raise our own heir as single fathers. But that wouldn’t work for me.

I’m Greek. I want a family.

Not just that. I want back everything that was taken from me.

Although I was raised by a father and mother who never left any doubt about how much I was wanted, there’s a part of me that still craves compensation.

The ultimate prize. The crowning achievement of having defeated all those bastards.

"Where were you?" William asks, likely the person who knows me best in the world, noticing my distraction.

"Walking between past and present, as always," L.J. answers for me. "Maybe deciding on the ideal woman will help you finally close the door on the past, Athanasios."

"I don’t want to close it."

"That won’t bring her back."

"I know, but it will honor her. Besides, I haven’t given up. She’ll wake up one day."

Hours later, my mind is still stuck on the conversation with my partners.

I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t been paying more attention to my female companions since New Year’s Eve.

I’ve had a few girlfriends who lasted months—or if they weren’t officially girlfriends, it was something very close. Either way, it was an attempt to deepen a relationship.

Attempt is the perfect word because I don’t consider myself capable of truly connecting with anyone. For a wife of convenience, I don’t want much more than sexual compatibility—and of course, the woman has to be attractive—and the ability to maintain an intelligent dialogue with my partner.

Even so, I haven’t found anyone who made me even consider giving up the single life. However, the clock is ticking. I don’t want to be a grandfather to my own children.

I think about what L.J. said about Brooklyn being a potential candidate.

She’s as beautiful as a painting, so the physical attraction part would be covered.

The girl has already been broken, if the story about the father of her babies is true—that he was involved with dangerous people. And then there’s everything she’s been through recently. No one comes out of an experience like that unchanged.

What will she want from life after surviving such a nightmare?

Security, my cynical side answers.

With two children, now without their father, and being so young—twenty-one, according to her records—Brooklyn will certainly want to rebuild her life and provide a home for her kids.

I get up from the armchair, pour myself a glass of whiskey, and look out from my penthouse, not far from one Zeus owns here in Manhattan.

I stare at the night outside, unseeing, as I seriously consider what L.J. said for the first time.

It’s true that from the moment I first saw her, even in a photograph, I was struck by her beauty. But that alone isn’t enough for a relationship. I’ve been with more beautiful women than I can remember, and none of them left any impression beyond the hours of pleasure we shared in bed.

On the other hand, as my partner pointed out, I’ve never spent so much time with someone I was interested in, not even those who were a constant presence for a period in my life.

I walk to my apartment library, sit at the desk, and turn on the computer. This time, my search on Brooklyn Foster has nothing to do with the night of the incident—it’s about her past.

Twenty minutes later, I’m partially surprised by what I’ve uncovered.

She was a hairstylist before becoming pregnant. The last photo on her Facebook, taken in a salon, shows her with a rounded baby bump—I’d guess about four months along.

Is that the real Brooklyn? Likely, yes.

Not the girl with a sad smile, holding her babies shortly after their birth, when she probably realized that whatever dreams she’d once had wouldn’t come true. No, this was a future mother preparing for her children.

I stare, captivated, at her frozen smile on the screen.

I thought she was beautiful, even in hospital clothes, thin from months of inactivity.

I was wrong. Brooklyn is stunning.

There are many photos of her with Madison, and it seems the two are not only close but also hardworking women.

There’s only one photo of them with an older man, who is unmistakably their father. Despite their differences—one blonde and the other brunette, one with blue eyes and the other green, if I recall correctly—their features are unmistakably his.

They share the same direct, questioning gaze that leaves no choice but to meet it.

I scroll down to find his name.

Otis Foster.

Where is he?

I search for his name.

Deceased.

But it’s not just the obituary that catches my attention—it’s a news article about his arrest for fraud. Nothing major, just petty crime, but it seems at odds with what I’ve learned so far about the Foster sisters.

I shut the computer down, and the idea takes firmer shape in my mind.

Have I found my candidate?

I know she’s not as docile as I initially thought, based solely on her princess-like appearance, but I never wanted a doll. If her behavior upon waking is any indication of who she is, the idea of bending her to my will is all the more thrilling.

I’ll have about a month to observe her—the time I estimate it will take for her to recover. After that, I’ll know what I need to about Brooklyn Foster. And if I see in her what I’m looking for, I’ll devise a plan to seduce her.