Chapter 7: Ten Weeks

Celia woke to white light and a needle taped into the back of her hand.

The junior assistant sat beside the bed with a phone in her lap.

"Ms. Wainright, you're at Mercy General. You passed out at the club."

"Where is Troy?"

The assistant looked at her knees.

"He carried you to the car, ma'am. Then he said he had a match."

Celia stared at the ceiling.

He had put her in the back seat, fastened her seat belt and walked away.

She waited for the anger to arrive.

What came instead was a long hollow ache, and it did not feel like her own.

"I want to leave," she said. "I have a nine o'clock."

"The doctor asked me to keep you here until she's seen you."

"Then get the doctor."

The door swung open before the assistant could stand.

Dane came in first, with a bunch of lilies and a smile he had practiced in the elevator.

There was a small white plaster on his forehead.

"There she is," he said softly. "I heard you were here. I got the first car I could."

He kissed her cheek.

He smelled of expensive cologne and nothing else.

Celia studied the plaster.

The doctors at St. Bride's had put one just like it on him on the day of the wedding, and let him go in two hours.

"Does that still hurt?" she asked.

"Every day," Dane said. "You know how I get. I don't complain."

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