Page 85 of And Then Came You

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My friends drop me at the Plaza, assuring me they’ve got the situation contained.

Good thing, since I’m supposed to fly to Switzerland tomorrow. The last thing I need is an outstanding warrant, forcing me to miss the shoot.

I check my phone, noting that the doctor called about an hour earlier. Let’s hope it’s good news. If that bastard did any permanent damage, I’ll march right back to the bar and finish his ass off. “How is she?”

“Sore, but the wounds are superficial. I butterflied the cut on her cheek and cleaned up the rest. She’ll have a banger of a headache for the next couple of days, but that’s not my biggest concern.”

“What’s wrong?”

“She has a nasty cough and a sore throat. I want to watch her for a few days, just in case.”

I groan into the receiver. That throws a kink in my plans. “I wanted her to accompany me to Switzerland.”

“I don’t recommend that, Mr. Bernard. She needs to rest.”

I huff out a sigh. Lexi and I are like two ships passing in the night, but it’s time we both came home to port. “I’ll have her stay in my suite. Will you check on her tomorrow?”

“Absolutely, I’ll be glad to drop by. One other thing, that I’ve already mentioned to Lexi—she’s a victim of abuse and it might behoove her to speak to a professional. She didn’t seem keen on the idea, but it could help her process what’s happened.”

The heartbreaking part is that this isn’t a one-off. Lexi has endured this treatment for years, from all manner of men. “I’ll arrange a therapist to drop by, although Lexi is stubborn. She might want nothing to do with therapy or headshrinkers.”

The doctor laughs. “That’s exactly what she called them. Just do your best. Take care of her. She needs that more than anything right now.”

“I need her more than anything.”

Chapter Fifteen

Lexi

“More gummy bears?” Caroline tosses the bag in my direction, but if I eat one more piece of sugar, I’ll puke everywhere.

No joke.

In the last couple of hours, I’ve consumed my body weight in chocolate, cake and any variety of sweets that would hold still long enough. Now, I’m huddled under a pile of blankets, desperately trying to fight off this pernicious chill.

The doctor is insistent about seeing me again tomorrow morning, terrified I’ll catch any number of viruses.

Wouldn’t that be the icing on the cake?

Padding into the bathroom, I glimpse myself in the mirror. At least, I think it’s still me. It’s not the first time I’ve worn the artwork of sick and vicious men, but there’s something about the glaring of these bathroom lights, highlighting every scratch, every discolored cell, that makes me wobble on my feet.

Gingerly, I press my hand to my cheek. My face hurts—not an excruciating pain but a sharp twinge when the muscles flex or the air brushes my battered skin. It reminds me of those summer days in childhood, when many a bike ride ended with a tearful journey to the bathroom to patch up another skinned knee.

I was always a klutzy child, and I took spill after spill from my bike, earning more than my share of bruises and lacerations. After each fall, I would lie on my bed, imagining tiny soldiers inside my body rushing to the site, intent on repair.

Then, the following morning, I’d hop back on my bike. Fearless, even if I knew I’d fall again.

If only these wounds held the same connotation. They’ll heal. But Damian did more than strike my flesh; he struck the last vestiges of my soul that believed in love. In happily ever after.

The woman staring back at me from the mirror is tired. Resigned to the fact that romance exists only in stories.

Romance isn’t an option for a woman like me. Why, I don’t know, but I’ve been shown the truth enough times for the realization to sink in.

Who knows? Maybe life will be easier once I stop believing in fairytales and focus solely on writing them.

The keypad beeps and I hear Sam enter the suite, a sigh of relief whooshing from my body.

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