Billionaires In Love (Vol. 2): 5 Books Billionaire Romance Bundle

by Glenna Sinclair

  After a long moment, he said, “It’s only been a few days. There’s no sense in putting pressure on yourself.”

  “Then why are you pressuring me?” she asked impatiently. Though she knew it wasn’t right to put this on him, she pressed her point, anyway. “Why make an appointment for me so soon? How is that not putting pressure on me? Do you think I want a death sentence today? I’ve barely gotten used to the idea of taking it easy and healing, and now you want me to face an expert who will likely tell me my sight is gone and there’s nothing he can do?”

  “I only made the appointment because I thought you’d want it. We don’t have to go.”

  “No,” she said. “I should go. I want to. I’m just...” she trailed off, stammering.

  “You’re just frustrated. I get it.”

  “No,” she snapped. “I’m an idiot.”

  “You’re not an idiot.”

  “I actually thought I could see light, that’s how naïve I am.”

  “What do you mean?” he asked, his tone shifting with an edge of intrigue that stirred up the hope in her chest that she knew was borderline insane to have.

  “I mean this morning I saw a light burst. You know, because of the sun. But it can’t be that I’m seeing it, because I can’t see. So therefore, I’m a moron.”

  “Hey,” he said firmly, “stop it with the beating yourself up. This is a good sign.”

  “Is it?” Before he could answer, she quickly interjected, “Don’t you dare make me a fearless optimist and wrong. I’ll be crushed.”

  “I’m telling you it’s a good sign, and it’s all the more reason to see the specialist if you’re up for it.”

  Rose sat in deep consideration for a long while. At times, Taylor placed his hand on her knee, her back, soothing her. She found her breathing was labored with emotion, but finally she said, “I am.”

  After she rose from the bed, feeling the cool AC on her bare legs and her arms where the sleeves of her tee shirt failed to fall, she felt him put her jeans in her hand. “Your pants. I’ll get you a shirt.”

  Dressing was a slow effort, and once Taylor was dressed, as well, he led her into the kitchen where he put on a pot of coffee and asked her about eggs for breakfast. She had little appetite and thought coffee would be enough. Shortly after sitting and letting the caffeine hit their veins, they made their way down to the red carpet curb where Taylor’s driver met them to escort them into the limousine.

  The drive to Seattle Mercy was tense. Rose sat with her knees clamped together, her hands between them. Taylor put on some music that played quietly. She recognized the songs and the artists, but barely listened, she was so deep in thought.

  “What’s the doctor’s name?” she asked as they climbed out of the limo after pulling up to the main entrance of the hospital.

  “Shawn Fitzpatrick,” he said, taking hold of her elbow as they walked towards the sliding glass doors.

  Inside, Taylor checked in at the desk and filled out paperwork for Rose, asking her pertinent information when necessary—her date of birth, her Social Security number, and insurance carrier. He reminded the attendant of their appointment, and they only had to wait ten minutes before permitted to the third floor where ophthalmology was located.

  There, Taylor checked in, reminded the receptionist of Rose’s appointment, and they took a seat in the anteroom.

  “When you were working as a doctor,” she asked in a low voice, in part listening to the sounds of the waiting room around her, “did you ever work with the eyes?”

  To her far left, a teenaged girl argued with her mother about where they might eat after her appointment. Rose wondered what the girl looked like and how she might be dressed. She thought of her own mother and father, and felt of twinge of relief that they hadn’t lived to see her in her current condition.

  “No,” said Taylor, speaking softly. “Different surgeons focus on different areas of expertise. I mainly dealt with the vital organs. Ophthalmologists focus solely on the eyes. Ear, nose, and throat doctors deal only in those areas. Then you have cardiologists for the heart, neurologists for the central nervous system, and brain surgeons for brains.”

  She felt relaxed listening to Taylor detail the various areas of medicine, though he wasn’t telling her anything she hadn’t already known. His deep voice was low and melodic, and seemed to have the same effect on her no matter how she was feeling. Everything about Taylor relaxed her.

  “Rose Cole,” said a nurse from across the waiting area.

  She got to her feet and again Taylor took her arm, guiding her through a door and down a short hall where they rounded into an office.

  “Rose,” said a man who sounded in his late fifties, thanks to his gravelly timber. “I’m Doctor Fitzpatrick. Have a seat.”

  He seemed to direct the invitation to Taylor, who immediately helped Rose towards a chair then sat in the one beside her.

  “I understand you spent some time here in the Bellevue hospital and were released a few days ago.”

  “That’s right,” she said, wondering when and how she might mention she’d seen a few bursts of light this morning.

  “It’s good that you’re here. It’s never too early to assess your healing so that we can monitor where the nerves are at and the possibilities that information implies.”

  “Thanks,” she said awkwardly.

  “I’d like to take this time,” he went on, “to answer any questions you might have, then we’ll get you set up in one of our patient rooms and I’ll take a look at your eyes and run a few tests.”

  “Okay,” she said. She hadn’t thought about what questions she might have for him beyond the glaring one—would she ever see again?

  “You’re on the donor list,” he said, and Rose heard him rustling papers, which told her he was reviewing her medical records.

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “Eyes are a tricky organ,” he went on. “Mainly because many citizens don’t think to donate them. Size and shape matter, as well, so of the few that pass through to this department, it’s not always a guaranteed match. The good news is that, unlike the vital organs, we don’t have too many patients on the list above you, so it shouldn’t be too long. Furthering the good news is that just because someone above you on the list gets first dibs on new eyes doesn’t mean they’ll be a match, so those could pass down to you, and we would test to see if they will work for you.”

  Rose smiled and let out a breathy sigh at the promising news, but then a wave of worry spread through her.

  “This is all to assume I can even get a new pair of eyes.”

  Dr. Fitzpatrick said nothing, but she sensed him stiffen behind his desk.

  “You’re correct,” he said finally. “This is why we need to run tests.”

  “What if enough time hasn’t gone by? What if I haven’t healed enough and you look at me and think I’m too damaged for new eyes and I miss my chance and months down the road I’m actually ready for eyes but no one knows because I was tested too soon in this process?”

  She drew in a deep breath.

  “Try not to let your fears get the better of you,” he said. “And to ease your worry, that’s not going to happen. What you’re describing would be a gross administrative error, which I can assure you won’t happen. If we test today and it’s much too soon for surgery, then we’ll continue to test periodically. We won’t determine you’re unfit for new eyes unless periodic tests are still proving futile a good eight months from now.”

  “Okay, that’s a relief.”

  “That being said, I’d like to be honest with you about one test that would rule you out for receiving eyes.”

  Again, her entire body tensed.

  “A test that you’ll do today?”

  “Yes.”

  “And this is a test that determines whether or not I get eyes, no matter if I continue to heal over time?”

  “Yes, however it’s a small chance that this specific nerve would’ve been damaged.�
��

  “Small chance?” asked Taylor, who sounded as concerned as Rose, if not more. “How small a chance?”

  “Given the nature of the accident and the chemical,” he began, “I’d say Rose would have less than a 20% chance that this nerve was damaged beyond repair.”

  “Okay,” she said. “That sounds like the odds are in my favor.”

  “I’d say so,” said the doctor, and she could hear the smile in his voice. “Plus, you would’ve shown signs and symptoms had this nerve been damaged, and Taylor didn’t mention anything unusual the last time we talked. When was it, yesterday evening?”

  “What a second,” said Rose. “What symptoms would that be?”

  “Patients have described it as a bright burst of light, often confusing it for the return of their sight.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Carter approached the bars with heavy steps. The Bellevue jail smelled of bleach and mildew, and the windows, lined with bars and high on the back wall of each cell, offered virtually no natural light. Fluorescents buzzed overhead, which only added to his growing agitation.

  Within the cell, Layla was seated in an exhausted hunch with her back to him. The bed she sat on was sunken in and its pillow lay on the concrete floor.

  “Hey,” he said, keeping his booming tone low so as not to garnish the guard’s attention who was standing post near the jail’s entrance, which separated it from the front desk where a wealth of police officers were in and out, getting calls and drinking coffee.

  “Yeah?” she said, glancing over her shoulder before looking away, gaze falling to the pillow on the floor. “If you’re not here about my bail or to let me know when Harold’s coming or to give me a shred of good news then I’d rather be alone.”

  “Come to the bars, Layla, I shouldn’t have to shout.”

  “Why? So you can lecture me some more for being reckless.” She whipped her head around and glared at him. “Every day I feel more and more like I’m the only one here who’s prepared to really fight, and I don’t like the looks I’m getting for it.”

  “Oh don’t give me the poor-me routine. I’m not buying it. You went off the deep end and I’m doing everything I can.”

  “If you’d have come with me, I wouldn’t have gotten caught.”

  “If I’d gone with you, I’d be in the next cell and you know it,” he countered. “So stop with all this martyr bullshit and get over here.”

  Reluctant to give him an inch, she made slow work of rising to her feet, and when she turned Carter got the sense that she’d rather stare him down like a disgruntled teenager than let go of her pride to have a productive conversation. But gradually, she stalked to the bars and wrapped her thin hands around them.

  “You have my attention.”

  “Good,” he said, drawing in a deep breath and trying to prepare for how to tell his girlfriend she’d been officially fired. There was no way to prepare for such a conversation. “Harold isn’t coming.”

  She snorted a laugh. “Too busy?”

  “Worse,” he said. He took a moment to touch her hands, but she pulled away and planted her fists on her hips. She wasn’t pissed anymore. Her eyes were widening. She looked scared. “Rose said you’re out of One World.”

  “What?”

  Carter couldn’t stand watching her lips quiver as she held back tears and paced backwards to get distance from him. He wished he could hold her. And even more so, he wished she hadn’t snuck off on her own and thrown a grenade at Starlight when he’d begged her not to. She’d told him she wouldn’t. She told him she was going to shower at the motel then drive into Seattle to meet him at the Escala, where he’d waited with Rose. He wished he felt like he still knew the woman whose gaze he was meeting in this very moment.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “So what am I supposed to do?” she asked, throwing her hands up at the predicament she was facing.

  “We’ll have to get you an attorney.”

  “With what money?”

  “You have a right to a public defender.”

  “I’ll go to prison with a public defender. Those people are incompetent, you know that.”

  “Why the hell didn’t you listen to me?” he demanded, raising his voice then quickly glancing at the guard. Steadying his tone, he said, “We need to ask for a public defender, get them on the effort to pressure the court to set bail, get you out of here for the time being.”

  “How could she push me out? She needs more people, not less. She’s blind, for Christ’s sake. She can’t work on this. She can’t shut down the pipeline. And she’s off screwing the enemy. It’s us who should force her out, take back One World, do things our way.”

  “Our way? You mean your way? You mean we all go to prison.”

  “Carter, I warned you. If you came here to lecture me, I don’t want to hear it. You can go.”

  “I didn’t come here to lecture you. I came to help you get your head on straight. And I came to make a plan.”

  “What plan?” she asked in a futile tone.

  “We’ll get you out of here,” he began, growing intense to get her on board. “I have some information on Taylor that could ruin him.”

  “What information?”

  “Prior drug use. A mental health record of psychosis.”

  “You know that pipeline is the work of his father,” she said, dismissing his findings.

  “Like father, like son,” he suggested, and Layla’s eyes lit up.

  “Like son, like father.”

  “This could be very bad for them. A mentally ill CEO and a father so delusional he falsified chemical tests before submitting them to the government for clearance to move forward with Starlight.”

  “You have that?” she asked, excitedly rushing to the bars. “You found proof they falsified documents?”

  “You may be looking down your nose at the leader of One World, but the fact that Rose is now living with Taylor gave us a whole new in. You wouldn’t believe what I found in his office.”

  Layla took a moment to process their leverage then said, “What does this mean for me, though? If I’m out of One World, then I’m out.”

  “But you’re still an activist, and so am I.”

  “You want to steal this from Rose?”

  “Like you said,” he went on, speaking low, “she’s blind and out of the game. We can take this, Layla. We can take the information, the proof, use it against the Montgomerys, shut down Starlight ourselves, get the glory we deserve, our names in the headlines.”

  Layla slid her hands over Carter’s where he was holding the bars, as she said, “I’m in.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Rose was seated in a chair and trying not to shift around, even though she felt uncomfortable lying back at a forty-five-degree angle with a metal plate pressed against her face. The plate was cold as ice, yet the light Dr. Fitzpatrick used to see through her left eye then the right caused the white starbursts to flare as they had that morning.

  “Right now, Rose, I’m taking images of the optic nerves,” he explained, and then she heard a series of faint clicks. “You may feel a little woozy, but that’s perfectly normal.”

  To say she might feel a little woozy was the understatement of the century. Prior to helping her into the chair, which she imagined looked just like one a dentist would use, Dr. Fitzpatrick’s nurse shot a numbing agent into each eye, and the second it hit her bloodstream she felt downright drunk.

  “Okay, Rose, you’re going to feel some pressure,” he said. A moment later, she felt the prick of his surgical needle easing through her right eye.

  Taylor held her right arm, whispering, “Try to hold still.”

  She could hear the grimace in his tone, and it was beyond her how he could stand to watch such a grisly test procedure.

  “I’m pulling out now,” said the doctor. “Angling into the other eye now.”

  “And why are you using needles?” asked Taylor.

  “I took an initial s
et of pictures, but for the second set I need to inject dye into the veins to see where life meets death. It’ll show me the length of nerve endings that we’re working with here.”

  “And when will you do the one test that’s definitive?” he asked.

  “It’s part of these pictures,” he said. “You’re doing good, Rose. Pulling out now.”

  Rose heard him set the needle in a metal tray beside her and then a series of photos clicking off.

  As Dr. Fitzpatrick angled the camera around her to take images from every side, he mentioned, “I know an excellent plastic surgeon on five. Have you met Dr. Ashbury?”

  “Ashbury,” Taylor repeated to himself. “No, I don’t think so.”

  “She’s the best in Seattle. It’s up to you, Rose, but I would think Dr. Ashbury would have ideas about how to restore the texture of your skin around the eyes and over the bridge of your nose and brow.”

  Holding very still since the camera was still firing, she said, “I’m not sure I’ll care what I look like if I can’t see myself.”

  “Well,” he said, “it’s just a thought, an option. And the burns didn’t warp the bone. I’d say you’re a good candidate for full restoration.”

  “Yeah, tell me the same about my eyes and I’ll be happy,” she said, trying not to sound sarcastic.

  “All right, we’re all done here,” he said, dabbing at the corners of her eyes. “I’ll have a nurse come in to dress your bandages, then you can wait in the anteroom while I go over these images.”

  “How long will that be?” asked Taylor.

  “Not long. Ten minutes. I just need my technician to upload them into my computer and a few minutes to myself to review them.”

  “A few minutes and I’ll know if I’ll ever see again,” said Rose, drifting into the bizarreness of it all.

  “See you in a bit,” he said, and she heard him pad across the room and close the door.

  “I don’t know how I’m going to handle this,” she said.

  “Hey, we’ll just stay positive.”