Page 2 of The Arrogant's Surrender

“Athanasios, I have a special favor to ask of you,” a friend, Hades Kostanidis, says as soon as I pick up.

The words “favor” and “ask” aren’t something you typically hear from any of the Kostanidis family, and my curiosity is instantly piqued. “What’s it about?”

“A patient. Not just any patient—she’s the sister of Zeus’s girlfriend. The girl is in a coma, and we’d like you to take on her case.”

My initial instinct is to refuse. I get dozens of similar requests every day, but from the way he’s describing it, they practically consider this patient family, or else Hades wouldn’t have come to me. “How old is she?”

“I’m not sure. I don’t know her, but she’s probably around Madison’s age, nineteen. Maybe a little older.”

“Madison?”

“Zeus’s girlfriend. The sister’s name is Brooklyn Foster.”

“Do you know what happened to her?”

“Not the details. I know she was attacked at night, her partner died, and she was shot. I’m not sure where, but she’s been in a coma for months. The doctors have practically given up hope. They say there’s no apparent reason why she hasn’t woken up, but she hasn’t.”

Even before learning more, I already know I’ll take the case. There are few moments when I feel my blood pumping through my veins, and being challenged is one of them. “I don’t work based on hope. I work based on data.”

I hear him chuckle on the other end. We’ve known each other too long and share too many similarities—obsession being the main one when something captures our attention.

“Can I tell my brother you’ll take care of her? He’ll be more at ease knowing his sister-in-law is in your hands.”

“Sister-in-law? Is Zeus’s relationship with the patient’s sister that serious?”

“I can guarantee it is. Maybe even Zeus doesn’t fully realize it yet, but I know him, and that girl has knocked him out cold.”

I can’t imagine what that feels like—to be so taken with a woman that you’d want something permanent. I do intend to marry someday, but I have no illusions about a relationship built on love.

I decide to change the subject. “And you? How are things going?” I ask. I rarely bother with questions like this, evenwith long-time acquaintances like Hades. But like me, he’s been circling a particular problem for years.

“I’m waiting.”

“Still? When are you going to accept that it’s over?”

“When my hatred fades. I don’t want to talk about it anymore,” he says, and I don’t push. How could I when I keep many secrets even from those closest to me? “What do you need in order to see her?”

“First, her sister needs to authorize my visit to the patient. Then I’ll need the current medical team to share her test results and give me their initial report. I’ll speak with her attending physician. Send me the address of the hospital where she’s staying. Either way, if Brooklyn Foster becomes my responsibility, I’ll have to move her here. I don’t work at any hospital other than my own.”

“Of course. Once you take over, the logistics are up to you. I’m sure her sister won’t object.”

As soon as we hang up, I open my laptop and search for Brooklyn Foster’s name.

A small article in the crime section of New York’s biggest newspaper describes a home invasion. According to the report, the police treated it as a burglary gone wrong, resulting in her partner’s death and her injuries. There are no additional details.

I scroll down and find a photo of the woman who will soon become my patient.

She’s sitting on a lawn, smiling, with two newborns—twins, judging by their size—in her arms. One is wrapped in a pink blanket, the other in a light blue one.

She smiles at the camera, but it’s not a smile that reaches her eyes. Her delicate jawline is tight, and her full lips are pressed into a thin line.

I don’t know much about young mothers, but from what I see here in the hospital, aside from cases of postpartum depression, they usually display euphoria when starting a family.

I zoom in on the small photo, studying the woman’s features more closely.

She’s beautiful, with an almost ethereal quality, as if she doesn’t belong to this world. Even seated, her body appears graceful, like a dancer’s. Her face is defined by classic features: expressive blue eyes, a small nose, full lips, and long blonde hair with lighter highlights.

Typically, a woman’s beauty alone doesn’t have the power to impact me. It’s the full package—personality combined with appearance—that catches my attention. In Brooklyn Foster’s case, though, there’s something in her eyes, a depth uncommon in someone so young, that captures my interest.

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