Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Prologue
Chapter One
Prologue
Chapter One
SURVIVING EDEN
SURVIVING SERIES
Book 1
VIRGINIA WINE
Dr. Theodore Grant worked hard his entire life to achieve his goals. He was a prominent, renowned psychiatrist. He had it all: wealth, prestige, respect. Or so he thought.
When tragedy unexpectedly struck, he was forced to help his best friend’s daughter. She needed him. What he didn’t know was that he needed her, too—like his own breath.
How could he know it would all go so terribly wrong? That he would cross the line? He fought the desire leading him astray with everything he had, but in the end, he wanted only one thing: her.
To hell with what was right. Losing everything never even factored in his decision. All he wanted to do was live in the moment. Her moment.
She found his demons and slayed them with her innocence. The answer was clear now: he had done the right thing. He was certain of it. People would believe what they wanted to believe.
His notion of right and wrong was discarded the day Eden Barnett walked into his office. What he didn’t know was that it would be the day his life truly began.
The day he followed his heart, and it lead him into the garden… of Eden.
*Content warning: Contains adult content, language, and scenes that may not be suitable for all audiences. Intended for 18+ audience. *
SURVIVING EDEN
Copyright © 2018 by Virginia Wine
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Ebook formatting by Added Touches, LLC. Cover design by Added Touches. Edited by The Formatting Fairies. Used by permission. All rights reserved.
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Printed in the United States of America
First edition, 2018
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Table of Contents
Table of Contents
DEDICATION
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
About the Author
FORGOTTEN TRUTH
Prologue
Chapter One
FORGOTTEN PROMISE
Prologue
Chapter One
Dedication
To all the fierce women in my life.
Prologue
I was seven, and she was five. The very last words I’d ever hear from her was my name on her lips, as she screamed it helplessly. It echoed in my head and squeezed my heart as our car plummeted over the edge of darkness, freefalling into the unknown.
Gravity, or the lack of, lasted only for a few moments before what felt like a brick wall hit. The cold water rushed in faster than my mind could comprehend.
Everything in the front seat was still. Motionless. My parents’ silence was disturbing as I tried to put the pieces together.
The water was rising. Her blue eyes were wide, aching for me, her big brother, to save her, save us. I remember taking my last breath as the water covered my head. Panic had yet to set in.
Confused by the sudden, silent crash of my window, I remember an *hand pulling me out with great force as I continued to inhale the water. Then the grip dug in deeper as my arm went numb, and I eventually just surrendered to the black. All I remember thinking was:
Madison… Forgive me.
Chapter One
Theo
Today
The g-force slamming me violently into my seat gives me complete control. It’s exactly what I need, and the power I crave. I knew this car, the BMW X6 G-power Typhoon S, was mine the instant I saw it. I’m not seeking approval from anyone, and I never will. The flashy red gloss gets unwanted attention, sure, but then again, I can control that, too.
The car’s screen suddenly lights up. “Dr. Grant.”
My voice activates it and I answer. “Yes?”
“I’m sorry to interrupt you, sir, but I had an urgent call of a personal nature.”
I immediately feel my body tense. It could be anything, I reassure myself, but a million different scenarios race through my mind.
“I’ll be in the office in ten,” I say, ending the call.
Miss Knight understands my need for solitude, yet her words stay with me as I pull into my private space. I button my jacket and straighten my tie out of habit. The elevator takes me to the top floor. Where I step into the room I see is Miss Knight waiting and look her way. Pain in her features, her nervous fidgeting out of character. Uncomfortable with her unusual summons, I notice her eyes won’t meet mine.
What the hell?
“Shall we?” I ask, extending my arm toward my office, assuming privacy is necessary. “Have a seat.” I sit behind my desk, and lean back, waiting. Her silence, triggering every cell in my body.
“Doctor,” she begins nervously, obviously navigating her words very carefully.
“I don’t know how to tell you this, sir.”
We stare at each other for a long moment. I’m growing impatient by the second, trying desperately to conceal my emotions.
“Go on, Kimberly.” Purposely using her first name to try and calm her worried look.
“Your friend, Dr. Barnett, and his wife, they were in a horrific plane crash, sir.” Her brows knit in a frown, and her eyes are filled with a sorrow I can no longer meet with mine.
“No one survived.” Her eyes swim with tears as I take in her words. I try to push the feelings away. Cold thoughts rush in, as if a storm is abruptly hovering over me. I watch her scrutinize my reaction, or lack thereof.
“What happened?” I battle my way back
to the moment.
“I don’t have all the details yet. I only received the message because we share the same private airline representative. She called with the news this morning. I’m deeply sorry, sir. I know you were close.”
Yes, we were close.
I pause to process. “I just saw him last week.” My frown deepens with the memory of our last day together on the tennis court. He kicked my ass. Then preceded to give me a hard time about it.
“Didn’t they have a daughter?” It occurs to me out of the blue. I have never met her, and she was always off to school somewhere.
“She wasn’t with them.”
I nod in understanding.
“There will be a service today, sir, one of many.” She starts to leave and turns. “Will you be alright?”
Of course not. It brings back way too many memories.
“I’ll be fine,” I reassure her, but the pain ripped through my skull and now I find myself feeling very alone by the sudden loss. Friends have not been bountiful in my life. I’ll miss our monthly tennis games, the testosterone flowing freely through our veins, the high-octane competition in fierce abundance. I craved it.
Flashes of Stanford and the trouble we often barely escaped come to mind. It usually revolved around girls, and a lot of liquor. He had taken me under his wing. Although older, I was suddenly a part of the pack, and he was the leader. He was a God, and I was honored to be allowed in his inner circle, part of his rat pack.
He rebelled against his father, who tried desperately to tame him while planning his entire life. There would be marriage, children, and stature. His father was chief of staff at Lucile Packard Children’s Hospital, Stanford, and had high expectations for his son. It had all fallen into place when he met Amanda. He’d married her and juggled school, family and his need to be more. Everything shifted when he fell in love, and finally grew up.
Dr. Mathew Bennett, MD, always relentlessly teased me that he was the real doctor. Psychiatry was just a cushy job, according to him, certainly not like being a proper M.D. I smile at the thought now. Our virile banter was always a consummate challenge in our relationship.
He had been an unsung hero, someone who never wanted recognition, but it would all come out now, God, he would hate that. He’d always jumped at any opportunity to help, no matter how treacherous the situation. He lived his life courageously, without question. He often traveled to faraway, dangerous places, like Syria, Honduras, and Somalia. He was medicine’s go-to guy, and he thought he could save the world. The special thing about him was that he actually made you believe he could.
***
I find myself alone in my thoughts. The office is rarely empty, the chair is always occupied, and it’s odd I have this rare moment to evaluate my feelings. I need to orchestrate a plan to process this loss step by step. I have to compartmentalize each feeling until I’m ready to face it. That’s what I tell my patients to do. I must live by that code, too, mustn’t I?
Olivia. I should cancel our date; she’ll be disappointed, but I need to be there. I want to be there. It’s a necessary part of the process, a process I know all too well.
“Theo, I understand, and my parents will understand. I’ll meet them and explain. Please don’t give it another thought,” she says. She can be gracious, at times.
“Did you ever meet him?” I purposely construct the question to avoid an actual invitation.
“No, I never had the pleasure. This feels like a very personal affair.”
Translation: no I don’t want to go.
Perfect, I don’t want her to go, either.
“Send my condolences,” she says.
“Of course, Olivia.” Hanging up, I realize that this conversation went exactly as planned.
***
The wind is blowing every which way, and the clouds are viciously churning, bringing the storm in faster than they predicted. The lightning tears through the sky, followed by the rumble of thunder. I feel the first few drops hit as I walk past several parking lots filled with cars.
I anticipated the enormous outpouring of condolences today. After all, Matt and Amanda were well known in the elite community of philanthropists, humanitarians, and the upper crust community who gave as much as they received.
I straighten my tie, opening the heavy door as a burst of chaos attacks my senses. I shrug it off and manage to weave though the hundreds of people.
“Closed caskets,” I say to no one. Of course, they would be closed. They’ve been cruelly taken in the prime of their lives, robbed by a circumstance beyond anyone’s control.
I see two beautiful white caskets with white roses draped over them. I notice there’s a black scroll drawn on the top and sides. Is it art? A final message? I can evaluate once I’m closer. Finally, I approach the end of the line, thankful it’s not snaked around several rooms. I watch as a man stands close to the caskets, greeting everyone and shaking their hands one by one. I search my memory for answers but come up blank.
“I’m Dr. Theodore Grant.” Offering my hand, the man takes it in his. We share a strong grip.
“Vincent Barnet, Mathew’s brother.” His smile is genuine, attempting to mask his pain. The same pain I’m inflicted with.
“My deepest condolences,” I offer. “We went to Stanford together, and have stayed in touch ever since.”
I find it odd that Mathew never mentioned a brother. Very odd, indeed.
“Thank you. I’m so glad you could make it.” He nods at me, and then I’m ushered away so the next grieving soul can be greeted.
Before I step away completely, I get a closer look at the art on the casket. It’s as if someone took a black sharpie and used their grief to create their own form of beauty. It was captivating. The stark difference between black on white is so hypnotic that I have to force myself to walk away.
I recognize several of Matt’s friends from the medical field and head their way to mingle for a while. “Dr. Theodore Grant, a friend of Mathew’s.” Inserting myself into their conversation, and introductions are passed around. Then they get back to the topic at hand.
“She’s taken it hard, as expected,” someone in the group says, as I look on, feeling like a spectator.
“But her silence is a real concern.”
Their heads nod. Their body language can be characterized as anxious, and worried.
“Not one word,” another person states as he meets everyone’s eyes in turn.
“Not a single word, or a single tear,” another chimes in.
I listen with the utmost interest, taking notes mentally, naturally analyzing what’s going on around me as it unfolds.
Then a sudden break in the sea of guests opens, and I notice a young woman sitting in a chair tucked in the alcove. Her long dark wavy hair is slightly covering her face. She never looks up or acknowledges the several people surrounding her.
I watch and study her, evaluating her disposition. The answers that usually come to me instantly are hidden behind the mask she wears. I start to walk toward her as she slowly lifts her head. The lighting behind her is now glowing, as if a halo surrounds her. She looks like a beautifully fragile bird wounded by life, her pain seeping from every pore of her body.
Within feet of reaching my target, her doe-like violet eyes meet mine. That haunted look, agony, grief, and a silent warning that I’ve come close enough. This must be the daughter. Abandoned by fate, her life as she knows it has been stolen in an instant. Now all that’s left to do is steady herself and go on without them.
I’m instantly swept up into her web of darkness. The empathetic sadness is difficult to fight off, but then again, I’m no stranger to grief myself. I’ve lived it; I’ve just never lived through it.
I’m suddenly brought back to the present when the young woman tilts her head, as if she’s looking straight into my soul, demons and all. Her beauty is the kind that brings men to their knees, and I find I can’t tear my eyes away from her. She is impossible to ignore, her alluring splendor
something I instantly crave.
Despite all this, I consciously choose to leave her in her sorrow and walk away while I still can. No matter how strong the pull is, I intentionally turn away. I fear the impact has already seeped into my psyche. Now I must fight to regain control.
***
I pull into the underground parking garage, and once inside the elevator, I press the penthouse button. Within seconds I’m walking into my oasis, with the lights of Reno flickering in the background. I let out the breath I’ve been holding. Here I am, alone at last.
I’m still haunted by her eyes, knowing that they are now forever imbedded in my memory. But as much as I want to deny it, she is by far the most intriguing woman I’ve ever encountered. Reaching for a bottle of wine, I find the glass unsteady in my hand. An intoxicating image of her forms in my mind, I begin to rationalize my reaction.
My behavior suggests empathetic feelings toward an individual who has experienced a similar traumatic event. I’m overcompensating with compassion and substituting it with a distorted kind of empathy. I realize I’m diagnosing myself cynically and totally overthinking this.
Taking my glass upstairs, I change from my suit into a pair of pajama pants and reach for several files concerning my appointments tomorrow. Dissociation is my objective. Working on other people’s issues instead of my own is where my comfort level lies.
***
“Levi is here,” Miss Knight announces bright and early the following morning.
Acute stress disorder. I contemplate while tapping my Montblanc pen on my desk.
“I’ll be right out.”
Personally greeting my patients gives me a sense of their disposition instantly. Levi’s story is disturbing, having witnessed his father kill his mother, although he continues to deny he was ever there. At fifteen, he’s clever enough to skirt the authorities—but not me. I’ve been asked to examine all aspects of what happened that day. The investigator seems to think I can pry the details out of Levi, so he can be a viable witness and be prepared for court. I don’t doubt my ability; I just wonder if it’s the right course of action for Levi.
Surviving Eden (Surviving Series Book 1) Page 1