Page 69 of When We Were Us

"How is he?" The worry in her voice was palpable.

I sighed, running a hand through my hair. "Everything seems fine, but they need to do testing tomorrow. The doctor said he'll keep the respirator in until then."

There was a pause before my mother asked softly, "And how are you doing?"

The question hit me harder than I expected. "I'm okay, I guess," I replied, my voice cracking slightly.

"What's the matter besides the obvious?" she pressed, her maternal instinct kicking in.

I stood up, pacing the room as emotions threatened to overwhelm me. "Everything, nothing. Things are so different than they were before we were attacked. How am I supposed to forget what happened on our honeymoon?"

My mother's voice softened. "You're not, just like you don't forget what happened to your father. It just fades. You've had a lot of trauma in your life, and for that, I'm sorry. I wish I could shield you from it all."

Tears pricked at my eyes. "Thanks, Mom. You did your best."

She cleared her throat. "Why don't you come visit us tomorrow? We can have brunch and take it easy."

I shook my head, even though she couldn't see me. "I can't. I want to spend some time with Oliver, and I need to speak with the doctor about how we move forward."

"Then why don't you come during the week, take some time off?"

Frustration bubbled up inside me. "I can't do that either. We have a few projects that need my attention."

"Ryleigh," my mother's voice took on a stern edge, "you're going to burn out. You've been running at full speed since this happened. Your brothers and Sadie told me they haven't seen you for weeks."

I clenched my jaw. "There's nothing to see."

A dull ache began to throb behind my eyes, and I pinched the bridge of my nose.

My mother continued, relentless. "They miss you, and you haven't seen Teagan since you came home."

Something inside me snapped. "What do you want from me?" I shouted, my voice echoing in the cavernous apartment. "I'm dealing with a lot of shit right now. I'm learning everything on the fly at Fox, I have Oliver to take care of, and my own crap to sort out."

"Have you talked to a therapist?" she asked gently.

I let out a bitter laugh. "Therapist? I don't have time, and it won't help."

"It helped when you were a child."

"In case you didn't realize, I'm not a child anymore. I'm an adult," I spat, anger and frustration boiling over.

"But you're still fragile," she insisted.

The word 'fragile' hit me like a slap. "You think so? Would a fragile person take care of what I have and be fine? I can't discuss this with you. I have some work to finish."

"Ryleigh, I just want to help," my mother pleaded.

I felt a twinge of guilt but pushed it aside. "I know, but there's nothing you can help with. Goodbye."

I hung up the phone as she protested, cutting off her words mid-sentence. Slumping back against the couch, I felt the weight of my solitude pressing down on me. The silence of the apartment was deafening, amplifying the chaotic thoughts in my head. So many decisions needed to be made in the coming weeks. Decisions that would change my life forever.

That night, I slept horribly, tossing and turning so much that Trouble abandoned me for his own bed. I couldn’t blame him. At 2 a.m., I found myself sitting in the dark, sipping scotch. Alcohol had become my solace over the past few weeks, a way to calm my nerves and lull me to sleep. I knew the danger of leaning on it too much, but I was desperate.

By 2:30 a.m., I managed to drift back into a restless sleep. My dreams were vivid and terrifying, always circling back to Raphael Caruso aiming the gun at me. The memory of the cold steel glinting in the house lights, the anticipation of the bullet tearing through me—it always jolted me awake, whimpering or screaming, my skin slick with sweat. Tonight was no different, and by 5 a.m., I gave up on sleep.

I took a quick shower and pulled on sweatpants and a t-shirt. I needed to go over some items for the next day. I avoided Oliver’s office, the scene of my recent discovery still too fresh, too raw. The hatred I felt would only make my upcoming visit to his bedside more difficult.

Oliver had no idea what my plans were. What kind of monster would I be to tell a man just waking from a coma what I intended? He would find out when he tried to reclaim his company. I had already taken the power of attorney document to Xander Wilder, a corporate lawyer at Keene, Ashburn, and Wilder. He and his colleague, Jacob Keene, confirmed it was only reversible when I relinquished control in writing.

Source: www.allfreenovel.com