I Can Hear My Paralyzed Billionaire Husband's Thoughts novel · Chapter 2 of 24

Chapter 2: Lavender

Clara moves into his suite and wins him over, then Rhett offers her two hundred thousand dollars to sign him away, and she tears the check.

The Wicklow estate was a stone house the size of a hotel, and nobody in it looked warm.

Damian's suite had been turned into a private hospital wing.

There was a bed with rails, a rack of monitors, and a ventilator parked in the corner in case he ever needed it.

The whole room smelled of antiseptic and lavender oil.

God, that lavender, Damian thought the moment they wheeled him in. It smells like a funeral home.

Beatrice sat on the edge of the bed with her shoes still on.

"The nurses handle the medical side," she told me. "What he needs is someone who talks to him. Someone who gives him a reason to come back."

"Then I'll stay in here," I said. "Day and night."

"The guest wing is very comfortable."

"I'd like to be close."

She'll last a week, Damian thought, dry and tired. Delaney lasted four days of visits before she sent flowers instead.

I didn't answer that.

On my first morning I threw away every bottle of lavender oil and opened the window.

The room filled with cold air and the smell of cut grass.

Thank God, Damian thought.

I shaved him slowly, the way I used to shave my grandfather, with the blade flat and my other hand holding his jaw.

She's better at this than the day nurse, he thought. That woman nearly took off my ear.

At eight I pulled a chair to the bed and read him the business section.

Asia had closed an hour before, and I read the Nikkei first.

How does she know that's what I want first?

Because you've been thinking about it since six, I didn't say.

I kept my face and my voice ordinary.

If anyone found out what I could do, they would call me a liar, or a thief, or a patient, and take me away from the only man in the house who might pay me for it.

So I pretended to hear nothing, and I listened to everything.

My left arm is dead under me, he thought, around noon. It's always dead. Nobody ever fixes it.

I took the pillow from behind his head and slid it under his elbow while I turned a page.

Silence.

Then, very slowly: Coincidence. It has to be.

That night I lay awake on the cot beside his bed, and his thoughts drifted.

Dad used to hum "Blue Moon" when I couldn't sleep. That's stupid. I'm thirty-one. Why am I thinking about that?

I stared at the ceiling for a long time.

Then I started to hum it, very low.

The heart monitor jumped, and then it settled into a long, slow rhythm.

His thoughts went quiet.

For the first time since the accident, Damian Wicklow fell asleep without being afraid.

On the third day, Rhett came.

He walked in with a leather folder under his arm and a very good suit on.

He had perfect teeth and eyes that stayed cold when he smiled.

A white keycard on a lanyard hung out of his jacket pocket, the kind that opened every staff door on the estate.

The second he crossed the threshold, Damian's thoughts blew apart.

Get him out. Get him OUT. Clara, don't let him near the IV. Don't let him touch anything.

I stepped between Rhett and the bed.

"So you're the replacement bride," Rhett said, looking me up and down. "Sweet. Desperate, but sweet."

"Can I help you?"

"I hope so." He set the folder on the side table and opened it. "It's a medical statement. It says that in your judgment as his wife, Damian shows no awareness and cannot make decisions. The board needs it before next month. A formality."

It's not a formality. If she signs, I'm legally incompetent. He gets my voting shares. He gets everything.

I didn't touch the folder. "I'm a nursing assistant. I'm not a doctor."

"You're his spouse. Your word is the one that counts." Rhett smiled and slid a cashier's check on top of the papers.

It was made out to me for two hundred thousand dollars.

My father had never let me hold two hundred dollars at once.

Clara, please. Damian's voice cracked inside my head. I know they treated you like dirt. I know you need the money. Please don't sell me to him.

I picked up the check.

His thoughts went silent.

It wasn't calm.

He had given up.

I looked at the number on the check for a moment.

Then I tore it in half, and in half again, and let the pieces fall onto the folder.

Rhett's smile stayed exactly where it was.

But his eyes went flat.

He bent close to me, close enough that nobody else could hear.

"Sign it by Friday," he whispered, "or you'll end up exactly like him."

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