Page 73 of The Billionaire’s Fake Fiancée
I sip it, and sigh in delight. It's delicious, refreshing, and a taste I can't quite get a handle on. A medley of sweet and tangy, a fusion of flavors.
"A local drink, a blend of gooseberry and herbs over crushed ice," Neil explains.
"Gooseberry?" I frown.
"It's common in these parts." He smiles.
I set down the glass on the side table and fold my hands together, then say, "Was it you on the phone?"
He nods, "I'm your mother's, Anja Deol's, lawyer," he says.
Anja Deol.
I roll it around in my head, try it out over my tongue, whisper it to myself, letting the syllables ripple over my skin. It sounds alien.
Nothing familiar about it.
I shut my eyes, try to recall those images that come to me often in the early hours of the day, when I'm suspended between sleep and being awake, but find nothing.
Nothing except loneliness, and hurt. And anger at being made to face up to a past I'm not ready for.
"Don't you want to know what name she gave you when you were born?" Neil asks.
"No," I lie, "It’s irrelevant. I'm Sienna Murphy."
He looks taken aback.
"It must all be so overwhelming," he says, his voice soft, persuasive. "But first meet your mother, hear her out. She has something very important to tell you." He hesitates. "Your mother's unwell, Sienna, she's been ailing for the last year. I've been helping care for her. She doesn't have much time."
I hear him, but I'm numb, not sure what to feel. Then he's on his feet, and guiding me toward the closed door at the far end of the corridor. He knocks on it, and pushes it open without waiting for an answer.
I am not ready for this.
37
Sienna
* * *
I follow Neil into my mother's room.
The first thing that hits me is that sharp smell of antiseptic and, below that, the strong, sweet smell of something I can't quite identify.
It's cool in here, the air conditioning turned up high enough to beat even the extreme heat outside.
The room is large with high ceilings. A bookcase covers one wall. In the middle of the room is a four-poster bed, the old-fashioned kind, and in the center of it, a figure ... At least, I think the slight bump in the middle is my mother.
"She's awake, but still groggy from yesterday's chemo session," Neil explains, but I barely hear him.
He walks toward the bed, before leaning over the figure. Turning, he beckons me over.
My sneakers make soft shuffling noises as I walk across the floor. I stop by the bed, to look down at the woman covered by blankets. She's so thin she barely makes a dent.
Her eyes are open, and she's looking at me, the look in her eyes echoing what I feel. Stunned surprise. Shock. She can't believe I am here. I can’t either.
Just like that, tears fill my eyes.
Seeing her so helpless?body wasted, head wrapped in a scarf, grooves running up her cheeks on a face ravaged by pain?sends a piercing ache through me.
