The Billionaire's Claim_Redemption

by Nadia Lee

  Fear glides its cold fingertips along my spine. Somberness isn’t good.

  “Mr. King?” The doctor sounds incredibly young. Maybe he isn’t that experienced. Probably the somberness is due to the fact that he misdiagnosed her and he’s embarrassed, not because her condition is that serious.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m Dr. Raydor. We’ve stabilized your fiancée.”

  Relief slowly wells in my heart, and I cling to that one word—stabilized. Maybe the good doctor was merely fucking with me with that somber expression. But I won’t hold that against him as long as she’s okay.

  “But…”

  My mouth dries at the single word, and the buzzing in my head grows louder. The doctor lists Elizabeth’s injuries, and I do my best to catch the words out of his mouth. Concussion. Contusions. Cuts. Near-drowning and water in her lungs. Fentanyl in her system, which could’ve killed her.

  I struggle to catch up, then stop when he speaks of the drug. “I don’t understand.” She doesn’t do stuff like that. If she did, I would’ve heard.

  The doctor frowns, the gaze still somber, but now taking on vague disapproval. He says a few things, but I can’t process a word as I look at Elizabeth lying on the bed.

  She looks so thin. She’s lost even more weight. Dark circles under her eyes look like bruises on her pale face, and the stapled gash an inch above her hairline so is long and straight, it’s like someone took a scalpel to it. A clear mask over her nose and mouth provides her with precious oxygen, while a monitor records a bunch of numbers and spits out lines going up and down on its screen.

  I go over and take her limp hand. It’s cool, and I squeeze it, willing my body heat to warm it and let her know she isn’t alone.

  I vaguely sense the doctor leave and Antoine come in. I keep holding her hand.

  “Here.” Antoine pushes a chair at me, and I sit without breaking contact with her. He perches on the edge of the bed, his fingers loosely linked. “You okay?”

  “No.” The muscles in my jaw flex. “I’m going to find out who did this to her.”

  “Why don’t you freshen up back at the hotel? I’ll watch her while you do.”

  “I—”

  “You have salt in your hair, and you reek like old seaweed. Come on. The nurse said Elizabeth is sedated and should sleep for at least a couple of hours. You need to get yourself ready for when she wakes up.”

  I don’t want to leave, but Antoine’s right. “I’ll be back in an hour and half,” I say. “Call me if she wakes up early.”

  “Your phone still working?”

  I curse under my breath. “No. Call the hotel.”

  He nods. “You’ll be the first to hear if she opens her eyes.”

  Chapter Six

  Dominic

  Elizabeth doesn’t wake up the first day. She doesn’t wake up the second, either.

  I basically live at the hospital, with Antoine bringing me a new phone and fresh changes of clothes.

  He also brings food, reminding me the importance of taking care of myself for her sake. Only for that reason do I choke it down. Nothing has any flavor or texture. Even coffee is bland. But I eat because Antoine’s right. I have to be strong and ready.

  The days start to blur. On the fourth day, doctors begin to look worried and whisper among themselves. But they still haven’t found a solution by the next day or the day after. They just appeared…puzzled as they remove the staples from her scalp.

  “Why don’t you read her something?” Antoine suggests.

  “Like what?” If he has a suggestion, I’ll take it. It’s better than sitting on my ass and wondering when Elizabeth’s going to wake up.

  “Whatever she likes to read. It helped my grandmother after her”—he clears his throat—“stroke.”

  I rub my forehead. What does Elizabeth like…?

  I can’t think of anything. I don’t remember her reading, but then, we weren’t exactly interested in cracking open books when we were together ten years ago. I realize our love when we were young was too full of stolen moments, Elizabeth trying to hide who she was, me trying to squeeze in whatever I could between classes, work and taking care of Kristen.

  When I continue to stare up at him, Antoine purses his lips, then leaves. Half an hour later, he returns with a plastic bag full of shiny paperbacks. “Try these.”

  I pull them out, then stare dumbfounded. They’re fiction, most with topless men on their covers.

  “Romance,” Antoine explains. “A lot of women like it.” He shrugs. “Can’t hurt.”

  Antoine leaves, and I pull a chair up to Elizabeth’s bed and start to read. The first book is about a couple that almost has sex—but doesn’t—with the girl hoping to never run into the guy again because she lied and then felt awkward about the relationship. So of course they run into each other again. I could’ve guessed that.

  When I reach the first sex scene, I stop. “Well, here comes the good part. If you want me to continue, open your eyes,” I say softly. “Or else you’re going to miss out.”

  Not even an eyelash flickers.

  “Come on. You know you want me to keep going.” I skim a few paragraphs to see if the scene’s worthy bait. “Oh, look at that. He’s going down on her. Very dirtily, too.”

  Only the rise and fall of her chest answers my futile coaxing.

  Sighing, I put the book down. “All right, fine. You aren’t going to wake up for this. The scene’s okay, but you know what? You and I have had way better.”

  Because we have. We might have difficulties, but a lack of chemistry has never been our problem. Our issue was more about trust…and an inability to see the full picture, because I’m starting to realize Elizabeth and I each hold five hundred pieces of a thousand-piece puzzle.

  I reach out and cradle her hand in my palm. “We had better from the very beginning.” My voice grows hoarse, and it isn’t from reading. “A fifth of a second. That’s all the time it took for me to fall for you when you first showed up at the bar. My head was wiped clean of everything except you.”

  She still stays quiet, and somehow her silence urges me to go on, makes me feel like I can open up and tell her everything in my heart.

  “You’re probably wondering why I’m here. After all, you gave me the portrait—the thing that matters the most to you. And I swore I’d take it from you. Call me perverse if you want, but I need to know why you gave it to me.

  “Why didn’t you fight for it? I expected you to. Part of me wanted you to…so I’d know I didn’t misjudge you when I thought you were an angel who could make Lucifer piss himself.”

  I draw in a shaky breath. Jesus. This is hard. Is she not going to wake up at all? Dr. Raydor swears there’s nothing physically wrong with her. Cold fear slithers in my chest, and I start talking faster.

  “You know that once I found out about the crazy deal surrounding the portrait, I went to see Julian? Since there are rumors of how much he doesn’t like his children, including you, I thought I could make him give me the portrait to spite you. Instead, he taunted me, saying Nate Sterling was there first. And I thought perhaps he came to see your father on your behalf.

  “It was obvious your father doesn’t care about you, and he refused to hand it over. He didn’t believe I would use it to spite you, because I apparently owe you one for what happened ten years ago.” I lean closer, staring at her, desperate for any hint of acknowledgment. Don’t people usually respond in some minute way, even deep in a coma? An eyelid flutter or something? Or is that all just Hollywood bullshit? “I was too furious to notice the subtle nuance, but I realized later that he meant you did something for me for which I’m still grateful.”

  She’s still quiet, her eyes closed.

  I run a palm down my face. “Yu-Jin told me what happened ten years ago. Why didn’t you break my nose when I showed up at the charity dinner and said all those abominable things to you?”

  Her fingers twitch in my grasp. Hope and despair war within me. Hope b
ecause maybe she’s waking up. Despair because I thought she moved yesterday only to realize I was imagining it.

  My head bent, I bring her knuckles to my forehead. And I pray with what depraved soul I have left that she wakes up.

  God or whoever is up there, if she wakes up, I’ll donate however much you want to whatever cause you want. I swear I’ll be kinder…nicer.

  “Water…”

  The word is so faint, at first I think I imagined it.

  My head snaps up. Elizabeth is looking at me, her eyes winter gray, just like ten years ago. My heart hammers, and I blink a few times, wondering if I’m hallucinating again.

  It’s possible. I haven’t had a decent meal in almost eight days.

  “Water…” she says again.

  No. I’m not dreaming. This is real.

  I stare for a second, then jump to my feet and bring her a glass of water. I help her sit up a bit and drink.

  Every movement of her throat is precious, and I exhale softly. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

  After a few small sips, she pulls back a little, her shoulders rolled inward. She looks at me, her gaze wary. “Thank you. I guess?”

  I ignore the shard of pain at the added “I guess.” Even now, she has doubts about my intentions.

  No shit, Sherlock. You did your best to make a mess of the situation.

  “How do you feel?” I ask softly.

  “I’m… My head hurts.” Frowning, she looks around the room. I’m glad I ordered some orchids and lilies. It looks slightly livelier than it would have otherwise. “Where am I?”

  “You’re in a hospital. There was a concussion…some other injuries.”

  “I see.” She slowly raises one hand and touches her temple. Her expression grows thoughtful for a moment, her brow furrowing. Then she turns to me, her gaze roaming over my face as though she’s seeing me for the first time.

  My gut churns. Did she actually hear what I said earlier?

  But the question that slips from her lips blows everything away.

  “Who are you?”

  Chapter Seven

  Elizabeth

  Maybe I’ve shocked him with the question. It’s difficult to say; my head still hurts, and my whole body aches like I had a kicking match with a kangaroo…and lost. He stares at me like I’m joking, then blinks once, like he’s snapping out of hypnosis, and calls for a doctor.

  My doctor, supposedly. Dr. Raydor.

  He enters my room, white coat like a snow flurry, a nurse trotting after him. He seems like a nice man, his bedside manner businesslike but not impatient. He moves with the type of professional confidence that says he knows what he’s doing and I should trust him. I like his darkly tanned skin, his soothing voice as he asks me about my condition. I don’t mind too much when he flashes a penlight into my eyes. After all, that’s just him doing his job.

  I want to be a good patient, so I concentrate on answering all his questions as thoroughly as possible, although it’s not always easy. How am I supposed to respond when he asks me to rate the pain I’m feeling, one being none and ten being terrible? It seems so subjective. A wimp might consider what I’m feeling at around eight, but I think it ought to be about four or five. I don’t want anybody to think I’m being a baby.

  Stoicism. A Pryce does not complain or whine. We merely disapprove.

  So I mustn’t whine. But how do you show disapproval for pain?

  “She asked who I was. That can’t be—”

  “Mr. King,” Dr. Raydor says, “sometimes people become disoriented after a head injury—”

  “But not remember who I am?”

  “Did you tell her who you were when she asked?”

  “Uh…I don’t think so.”

  The doctor scowls at the response.

  “No. I wanted to call you and make sure she’s all right. You said there’s nothing physically wrong with her, but I knew it. I should’ve realized something was wrong when she didn’t wake up for almost a week. A physically fine person does not—”

  The doctor’s heavy frown amuses me, but at the same time I’m a tad irritated with them talking about me like I’m not even there.

  “If you’re going to discuss me, you should include me in the conversation,” I say.

  “You aren’t well enough.”

  I raise an eyebrow, while Dr. Raydor sighs and checks a few things on his chart. “Your fiancé says you don’t seem to remember him.” He looks at me. “Still no recollection?"

  My jaw drops. “Fiancé?” I stare at both men, my eyes wide, then I look down at my finger, bemused. Seriously, do they think I’m that naïve and silly? “Where’s the ring?”

  “Lost in the sea,” my fiancé answers.

  Dr. Raydor nods seriously.

  “We’re engaged…” I say to myself slowly, then tilt my head to look at him. “I don’t know your name.”

  “Dominic.”

  “And my name?”

  “Elizabeth.”

  “Very formal.” I chew on that for a moment. “Is that what you call me?”

  He hesitates, then finally says, “Liza. I called—call you Liza.”

  I smile, absurdly loving the sound of that on his lips and feeling like I’m about to cry at the same time. “That’s lovely,” I whisper.

  “I’m the only man who ever called you that,” he adds, searching my face. “Don’t you remember?”

  I’m probably disappointing him. He seems so determined, as though he can just will me to recall everything. Should I tell him that it’s futile? That he can’t just force me to do what he wants?

  “We didn’t detect any anomaly, and none of the tests show any problem. My guess is this is a temporary memory loss, and it’ll come back with some time and patience,” Dr. Raydor says.

  I smile at the doctor, but Dominic’s mouth grows tight, his eyes narrowed. Maybe he’s annoyed. I don’t know how long he’s spent by my side, but it has to be at least several days from his thick growth of beard and the way his blue eyes have sunken into his absurdly handsome face.

  I pat his forearm. “It’s okay. The doctor said it’s temporary.”

  “How long?” Dominic asks.

  “Pardon me?” Dr. Raydor blinks.

  “How long is it going to take before she regains her memory?”

  “It’s hard to say.”

  Dominic bites back a curse, then huffs out a rough breath. Visibly reining in his temper, he turns to me and gentles his voice. “Liza, do you remember anything about the accident?”

  I hesitate. This is important to him, but I’m not sure exactly what he’s looking for. I choose my words with care. “What accident?”

  Chapter Eight

  Dominic

  Elizabeth doesn’t remember the encounter with the creep that landed her in the hospital in the first place. I don’t want to say much. She’s just woken up, and I don’t want to traumatize her any more than necessary.

  “I want to go home,” she announces suddenly.

  Dr. Raydor hems. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. You haven’t fully recovered.”

  “But you also said there’s nothing physically wrong with me,” she points out. “If you aren’t going to operate on me or put me through some type of physical therapy, I’m not sure how my presence is required at this hospital.”

  “Still…”

  “If you’re worried about follow-ups, I’m sure there are qualified hospitals and doctors near my home.” She turns to me. “Aren’t there?”

  Shit. I can’t have her return to L.A. She doesn’t remember who tried to hurt her, and my guess is the perp is someone close to her, not some stranger. Most crimes against women aren’t random. There’s a reason cops put a female victim’s exes and current significant other at the top of the suspect list. Then there’s Tolyan. Once she’s in L.A., he’ll make sure we never see each other again, not to mention all the poison about me he’ll spew. He’s never bothered to hide how much he disdains me, and I loathe the territoria
l way he positions himself around her like an overprotective Rottweiler.

  “We’re actually on a long break,” I say, thinking on my feet. “We were planning to go to our vacation home on a private island.”

  She tilts her head, blinking fast. “Our vacation home…?”

  Dr. Raydor shifts his weight. “I don’t know if it’s a good idea—”

  “But my fiancée’s right,” I say, laying it on thick. “There’s nothing you can do for her medically. It’ll be a good idea for her to go someplace idyllic and beautiful to rest and recuperate.”

  He still looks hesitant.

  “Besides, that’s where I proposed.” The lie glides smoothly from my lips.

  I sense Elizabeth start, probably stunned over not remembering something as momentous as the proposal. Guilt needles me—what the hell are you doing?—but I’m not letting her go to L.A., not until I get some answers.

  “It could help, I suppose,” Dr. Raydor says finally. “But she absolutely has to take it easy.”

  I manage a tight smile. “Don’t worry. I won’t let her lift a finger.”

  * * *

  Dominic

  Elizabeth wants to be discharged immediately, but I convince her to stay a couple more nights. She’s physically okay at the moment, but I want to make sure. There aren’t any medical facilities where I plan to take her. And I need to ready the place for our stay.

  I return to Aylster Resort and call the property manager in charge of taking care of the private island I bought a couple of years ago. Leaving her isn’t my first choice, but I can’t have her overhear my conversations. Memory loss doesn’t equal losing IQ points. Her mind’s still sharp, and she’ll figure out I’ve been lying through my teeth if I’m not careful.

  Antoine walks in after my call. Sweat’s dampened his T-shirt and hairline. “Whoa, you’re here. She must be doing better now.”

  I nod. “She regained consciousness earlier today.”