Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 74730 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 374(@200wpm)___ 299(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74730 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 374(@200wpm)___ 299(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
I was twelve when Mom’s condition first reared its merciless head. It started with headaches, which were misdiagnosed as migraines. Then it progressed to changes in her speech and her ability to keep her balance, which earned her a neurology consult. After that, there were bouts of joint paint and debilitating fatigue juxtaposed with periods of insomnia and endless energy, causing one doctor to erroneously speculate that her condition might be psychosomatic.
My father must have flown her to at least three dozen doctors and specialists all over the world before they finally diagnosed her with an extremely rare autoimmune syndrome.
And that’s what it was at first—a syndrome—a collection of symptoms.
It took years before they finally identified the root cause, and only after one of her specialists referred her to a genetic study taking place at Vanderbilt. After a series of tests, researchers there discovered she carried the two sets of genes for Palmer-Schoen Disorder, a condition affecting only one in every twenty million people around the world.
A condition for which there is no cure and the average life expectancy is forty years.
At fifty-one, she’s on borrowed time and has been for the last decade thanks to my father’s vast resources and connections. But all the money in the world still isn’t enough to save her.
This past Christmas, her symptoms returned with a vengeance seemingly overnight, and her body stopped responding to the stem cell therapy and experimental transfusions that had been keeping everything at bay all these years.
“Oof.” Mom places her fingers at her temples. “I’ve got a headache coming on. Room’s starting to tilt a bit. Probably too much excitement today. I’m going to go lie down.”
I rise to help her, but she shakes her head.
“I’ve got it, my love. Thank you.” With her hand gripping the bar counter and then bracing against the wall, she makes her way into the next room.
Oliver and I linger in silence until we’re sure she’s out of earshot, and then we exchange looks.
“She’s not doing so hot,” he says.
“Really? Hadn’t noticed,” I shoot back, my tone rich with sarcasm.
He begins to say something else but stops. There’s no need to point out the obvious. She’s getting worse by the day and the way things are looking, it’ll be a miracle if she gets to see us walk down the aisle come August.
“I should head out,” Oliver says. “You going to hang out here for a bit longer or you going home?”
“I’m staying.” Anything I could want to do at my place, I could easily do here, and I want to be here in case my mother needs something given that my father is out hitting the links.
Oliver jangles his keys and ducks out the side door. A minute later his Aston Martin roars to life in the circle drive before peeling out in a cloud of burnt rubber and dust. Never mind that my mother is trying to rest …
I fix myself another drink and pad towards the primary suite, listening from my side of the closed door, though for what, I’m not sure.
I hate that she won’t let me help her.
The only thing she’s ever let me do is just … be there for her in presence. Nothing more, nothing less.
Settling into the family room, I attempt to distract myself with some mind-numbing TV. My parents have every streaming service under the sun, but for some unknown reason I select Netflix. I’m browsing the new releases when Mr. Perfect pops up. The preview begins to play and I find myself chuckling at how ridiculous that movie was. It was almost satire or a parody of every romcom ever made.
I zone out while the preview loops, my thoughts drifting until they land on Campbell. While we may not be marrying by choice, there’s no denying there’s some kind of chemistry between us with our nonstop bantering. I’m not sure if I’d call it flirting, but it’s … something.
I wish I loved her the way my mother imagines I do.
I wish our marriage wasn’t a bona fide business transaction, a deal sealed only to safeguard our respective legacies.
Yet everything aside, I can’t help but wonder about the woman I’m about to marry. An unfamiliar sensation stirs inside me. Curiosity, perhaps? A desire to know more about her? To understand her? In all the years I’ve known her, I’ve never once felt anything like this. In fact, I’ve done everything I could to bury my head in the sand and not make an effort to get to know her—an act of rebellion, I suppose. But my efforts—or lack thereof—were in vain because the wedding is moving full speed ahead and nothing can stop this train.
I shake my head, trying to clear these unfamiliar thoughts. I have a mission to complete, a future to secure. I can't afford to let my feelings, or my curiosity, get in the way. It’s imperative that I treat this like the thing that it is—a loveless arranged marriage—and not waste a single second thinking it could ever be anything else.