Chapter 5 No.5

The room was quiet. The kind of quiet that money buys. Thick carpets absorbed every sound.

Clive sat in the leather armchair by the window. He had Dahlia's medical chart in his hands.

Arthur had left to deal with the billing department.

Clive flipped the page. Cornea transplant. Rejection risk: Moderate. Recovery time: Six weeks.

He stared at the signature line on the consent form.

Dahlia Glenn.

The handwriting was shaky. She must have been terrified.

He looked up at her. She was lying still, her hands folded over her stomach. She looked like an effigy on a tomb.

Are you thirsty? he asked.

Dahlia jumped slightly. She hadn't known he was still there.

Yes.

Clive stood up. He poured water from a crystal pitcher. No plastic cups here.

He walked to the bed. Here.

He held the glass out.

Dahlia reached for it. Her hand swiped through the air, missing the glass by three inches.

Clive felt a pinch in his chest.

Stop, he said.

He sat on the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped under his weight.

Open your mouth.

I can do it, she insisted.

Open.

She parted her lips. Clive brought the glass to her mouth. He tipped it slowly.

Cool water touched her lips. She drank greedily. A drop escaped the corner of her mouth and trickled down her chin.

Without thinking, Clive reached out. He brushed the droplet away with his thumb.

His skin was rough against hers. Warm.

Dahlia froze. She stopped drinking.

Clive's thumb lingered on her jawline. He could feel her pulse fluttering there. Like a trapped butterfly.

For a second, neither of them moved. The air in the room grew thick. Charged.

Then the door opened.

Oh, excuse me!

A nurse bustled in, carrying a tray of medications. She stopped dead when she saw Clive Harrington sitting on the bed, his hand on his wife's face.

Clive pulled his hand back slowly. He didn't look guilty. He looked annoyed.

Time for the dressing change? he asked.

Yes, sir.

Clive stood up and moved out of the way. But he didn't leave the room. He leaned against the wall, arms crossed.

He watched as the nurse peeled back the tape. Layer by layer.

When the last gauze came away, Clive inhaled sharply.

Dahlia's eyes were swollen shut. The skin around them was bruised purple and yellow. She looked like she had been in a prize fight.

She flinched as the light hit her eyelids.

It hurts, she whispered.

Clive's hands clenched into fists. He wanted to destroy something. He wanted to find whoever had made her feel like she had to do this alone and ruin them.

The nurse applied ointment. Dahlia whimpered.

Clive stepped forward. He reached out and took Dahlia's hand.

She grabbed onto him. Her fingers dug into his palm. She squeezed hard.

He squeezed back.

He stood there for ten minutes, holding her hand while the nurse worked. He didn't say a word. He was a silent anchor in her world of pain.

When the fresh bandages were on, the nurse left.

Dahlia didn't let go of his hand.

Clive, she whispered.

Yeah.

Why are you doing this?

Clive looked at their joined hands. Her pale, slender fingers against his large, tanned ones.

Because, he said, his voice rough. You're my asset. I have to protect my investment.

Dahlia let out a small, sad laugh. Right. The asset.

She loosened her grip.

Clive didn't let go immediately. He held on for a second longer than necessary. Then he pulled away.

He walked to the window. He took out his phone.

Dr. Aris. I want a full report on the donor tissue quality. And get me a list of the best post-op specialists in the country. Money is irrelevant.

He looked back at the bed. Dahlia had turned on her side, facing away from him.

He felt a strange hollowness in his chest. He ignored it. He dialed the next number.