Page 76 of Broken Hearts

In the examination room, the bright-white walls and the sterile smell are a stark contrast to the whirlwind of emotions inside me. He sits beside me, his face a mask of determination. His hand, warm and comforting, holds mine—the good one. His thumb traces circles on my skin, a small gesture that speaks volumes.

“Thank you for being here with me,” I say, my voice reflecting my gratitude and vulnerability.

Cole’s face softens, his eyes filled with a sincerity that reaches deep into my heart. “There’s nowhere in the world I’d rather be,” he replies, and the simplicity of his words wraps around me like a warm blanket.

Dr. Mahoney comes in. She’s a woman in her mid-forties looking quite strict, and I feel the apprehension when she turns on the wall screen showing images of my hand and opening files in front of her as she sits down.

“Mrs. Westbrook, thank you for coming today.”

“I… thank you for having us.”

She looks down at her file, reads for a minute, and looks back up. “So we received the results of your nerve tests and the MRI of your hand as well as the mobility shots. In all objectivity, it would have been easier if you had come here from the start. It is more challenging when the tissues are already healing, but…”

My heart sinks at her words, but Cole cuts her off midsentence, his voice cold, carrying a commanding tone so reminiscent of his father’s. “I mean no disrespect, but we’re not here to discuss the past. The what-ifs have no bearing here.” He fixes the doctor with a firm gaze. “We’re here now to improve my wife’s future, and I’ll ask you to concentrate on that.”

Turning to look at him, my heart swells with awe and affection. How much do I love this man? His assertiveness, his unwavering focus on the present and our future together fill me with a sense of security and appreciation.

The doctor, taken aback, quickly regains her composure and nods. “Of course, Mr. Westbrook. Well, there is a lot of scar tissue. But I have discussed this with my team and Dr. Malbourne, who is the most renowned orthopedic surgeon in the country, and we came up with a treatment plan. While we are not certain it will give your hand its full mobility, there’s a potential for significant improvement.”

“How significant?” Cole asks for me, as I’m too lost in my mind to speak.

“Well, conservatively, I would say at least sixty percent better, but I hope to reach at least eighty percent improvement.”

I look down at my hand. Eighty percent better would change everything. I may not be the prodigy I once was, but with that, I would be a damn good violinist, and I’d be able to play again—maybe give actual classes—open my school one day. The possibility of playing my violin again, of reclaiming a part of my identity that I thought I had lost, fills me with cautious optimism.

Looking back at Cole, who’s meeting my eyes with so much hope, I almost weep.

“It seems that it’s worth the shot,” I say, turning back to the doctor.

She nods but rests her elbows on the desk. “Yes, but I won’t lie or sugarcoat it for you. It will be a long, tedious, and painful process.”

Of course, it would be; nothing ever comes easy.

The doctor’s explanation is thorough, a blend of professional detachment and empathetic understanding. She talks about the journey ahead—time-consuming, filled with hard work, but also laden with potential. Her experiences with similar cases bring a ray of hope, yet she emphasizes the importance of not delaying the treatment.

She turns off the screen after the explanation. “I know it is a lot to take in, but I really need to insist that if you wish to proceed, we need to book the surgery as soon as possible. I already have some artificial nerves ready for you, and we need to remove the damaged nerves and scrape all the cicatricial tissues to ensure that the muscles of your hands don’t get damaged.”

“I—” I turn to Cole.

“Can we have some time to think about it?” he tells her, keeping his eyes on me.

“Yes, of course. Whenever you’re ready, call Rebecca, and she’ll book you for the procedure.” She stands up. “Mr. and Mrs. Westbrook, it was a pleasure to meet you.”

“What do you think I should do?” I ask him once the door closes behind her.

“I’ll support you, whatever you choose to do,” he says, and the conviction in his voice bolsters my own resolve.

“It will be time-consuming, painful…” I trail off. “Not the best way to start a marriage, right?” I say with a little laugh.

“For better or worse, Angel. For better or worse. I want to be here for the painful and chaotic bit just as much as I want to be for the laughter and orgasms. I don’t want to be your husband only in the good moments; I want to be here in the darkness, too, to hold you so it doesn’t swallow you whole.”

Bringing my scarred hand up, I cup his cheek. “I want to do it.”

He turns his head and kisses my scar. “Then I’ll be there with you every step of the way.”

As we stand to leave, I notice his gaze drift to my hand, to the finger that remains bare. Instinctively, I follow his eyes, and a small, uncertain smile plays on my lips. “No ring yet,” I remind him.

“Yet?” he echoes, a flicker of hope lighting up his features.

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