Chapter 11 For Myself
Almost said it’s Solenne. But that was not true anymore. She had signed the papers. She had said the words. She was married to Dorian Thorne, whether she liked it or not.
"Thank you," she said instead.
The room was on the second floor. It was larger than her entire apartment. A bed with white sheets. A window that looked out over a garden. A bathroom with a tub big enough for two people. A closet that was empty except for the clothes Lin had bought for her, all in her size, all in soft colors that she would never have chosen for herself.
She sat on the edge of the bed and looked at her hands.
Her left hand still had the faint line where her wedding ring used to sit. The ring Caspian had bought her. The ring she had lost in the snow. The ring that had ended up on Xiomara’s finger.
She touched the empty space. Then she put her hand on her belly.
You’re still here, she thought. You’re still with me.
*
*
*
Later, Moses Will arrived.
He was her assistant now. Dorian had assigned him to her. A young man with glasses and a nervous smile and a habit of saying ma’am at the end of every sentence. He carried two suitcases. Her suitcases. The ones she had packed at the apartment before everything went wrong.
"I retrieved them from the Thorne residence," Moses Will said. "Mr. Thorne’s staff was very... cooperative."
She almost smiled. Cooperative was probably not the word. Dorian’s staff had probably terrified Caspian’s staff into handing over her belongings.
"Thank you," she said.
He set the suitcases by the closet and left. The door closed.
Veyra unzipped the first suitcase. Clothes. Old clothes. The same thrift store sweaters and worn-out jeans she had worn for years. She touched them like they belonged to someone else. Someone she used to know.
The second suitcase was smaller. A carry-on. She unzipped it and felt her breath catch.
Her notebook was there.
It was a thick spiral-bound thing, pages wrinkled and stained, filled with her handwriting. Notes from the medical textbooks she had read in secret. Diagrams. Formulas. Observations. She had been teaching herself medicine for three years, in the hours when Caspian was working late and she was alone in the apartment.
She had never told him. She had never told anyone.
Beneath the notebook was a metal box, small and silver. She knew the combination by heart and she opened it.
Inside were vials. Powders. Dried herbs. Homemade medicines she had formulated herself, tested on herself, perfected over years of trial and error. Antibiotics. Pain relievers. An antiseptic that worked better than anything she had bought at the pharmacy.
She had not been useless all those years. She had been learning. Preparing. Building a skill set that no one knew about.
She closed the box and held it against her chest.
The old Veyra was dead. The woman who believed in love. The woman who trusted her husband. The woman who thought sacrifice meant something.
That woman had died in a cramped apartment while her husband spent eighteen million dollars on another woman.
The new Veyra was someone else. Someone who had not fully taken shape yet. But she knew one thing for certain.
From now on, she lived for herself. And for her child.
No one else.
*
*
Three days passed.
Veyra spent them in the villa, resting and eating the food Lin brought her. Walking in the garden with her cane. Reading her medical notebook in the sun. She did not see Dorian. She did not ask about him.
On the third night, she was sitting in the library.
It was a beautiful room. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. A fireplace that crackled with real wood. A leather chair that swallowed her whole. She had a cup of tea on the table beside her and her notebook in her lap and for the first time in weeks, she felt almost calm.
She heard the front door open. Footsteps in the foyer. Low voices.
Then the library door opened.
Dorian walked in.
He was still in his travel clothes, dark pants and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His hair was messier than usual, like he had been running his hands through it on the plane. There were shadows under his eyes.
He stopped when he saw her.
"You’re awake," he said.
"It’s only nine o’clock."
He nodded. He walked to the fireplace and stood with his back to her, looking at the flames. The firelight moved across his face. She watched him and tried to figure out what he was thinking.
He turned around.
He walked toward her although it was not fast or slow but he was taking his time like the way he did everything.
She did not move. She could not. Her body had frozen in place.
He stopped in front of her chair. He looked down at her. His gray eyes were dark in the firelight. He reached out. His hand moved toward her face.
She held her breath.
His fingers touched her chin. Lifted it. Tilted her face up toward his and her heart slammed against her ribs.
She could hear it in her ears. Feel it in her throat. Her whole body was suddenly aware of him. The heat of him. The smell of him. The way his hand fit against her jaw.
She sat there, frozen, her heart racing, and she waited.