Forbidden Heir (The Heirs 8)

Dr. Friedman thinks for a moment, then he nods. “You need to check in on Monday. I’ll have them prepare a room for you. We’ll perform the procedure first thing Tuesday morning.”

“What’s the risk?” My voice disappears as heat flushes up my neck and face, and tears blur my vision. I have to clench my jaw to keep the tears back, and it strains my voice as I ask, “Is there a chance I can die during the surgery because then I’d rather take the three to six months?”

How the fuck am I calm enough to ask these questions?

“There’s always risk where the brain is involved. I’ve done many of these surgeries. The possible risks are problems with speech, muscle weakness, vision, and other functions. A blood clot might form, so there’s the risk of you suffering a stroke.”

God.

Dr. Friedman tightens his grip on my hand as if he’s trying to lend me some of his strength. “You’re still strong, Danny. Let’s fight this and give you more time.”

More time.

Time.

God.

Nodding, I clear my throat. “Okay. I’ll check into Cedars-Sinai on Monday.”

“Great.” Our eyes meet, then he says, “I’ll do everything I can. We’ll go over what the procedure entails then.”

My body begins to jerk as sobs rattle up my throat, and it takes everything I have to say, “Thank you.”

“Do you have any other questions?”

I shake my head.

“Can I call someone for you?”

I shake my head again.

“Would you like me to prescribe you something for shock?”

“No.”

He gives me a comforting smile as he hands me his business card. “It has my personal number on there. Call me if there are any new symptoms like seizures or if the headaches get worse.”

“Okay.”

“Stay in here as long as you need to. Okay? I don’t want you driving in this state.”

“I have a chauffeur who can take me home,” I murmur.

“That’s good.”

Dr. Friedman stands up, and it has me rising on trembling legs. He gives my shoulder a squeeze. “I’ll see you Monday. Okay?”

I nod. “Okay.”

Dr. Friedman’s eyes lock on mine. “Enjoy the wedding, Danny.” He leaves the room, shutting the door softly behind him.

I stand and stare at the door, unable to move a muscle.

Shit… I’m going to die.

My legs go numb, and I quickly sit down again.

Anger explodes through me – scorching, destructive, and paralyzing.

I’m only thirty-two. Other people get to live well into their eighties. I’m not even halfway through life.

There was still so much I wanted to do.

To love Ryker and be loved by him.

To marry him.

To have his children.

To build a future with him.

I won’t be there when my brothers have children of their own.

I gasp as the ache in my soul deepens, and folding my arms around my waist, a devastated wail escapes me. I’ve never heard a sound like it before. But it’s the only way to express how I feel because there are no words.

I’m going to die.

Not in forty years.

I won’t be here next Christmas.

God, I might not even make the end of this year.

My body begins to jerk as uncontrollable sobs force their way through me. I cover my face with trembling hands and grief the death sentence that’s been handed to me.

The door opens and dropping my hands to my lap, I glance at the nurse as she says, “I’m sorry. I didn’t know anyone was in here.” She begins to close the door, then pauses. “Are you okay?”

Numbly I shake my head.

“Do you want to be alone?”

My chin begins to quiver as I shake my head again.

She comes inside, and shutting the door, she walks to me. Sitting down next to me, she wraps her arms around me.

Feeling the comfort coming from her, I begin to cry. I lift my arms and cling to her.

“I’m going to die,” I whimper, my voice drowning in loss and fear.

“I’m so sorry,” she murmurs, her voice warm and compassionate.

“I don’t want to die,” I sob, my body jerking.

“I know,” she whispers.

She pulls back, and when I see her red-rimmed eyes, my chest rattles with dry sobs.

She pulls a tissue from her pocket and wipes the tears from my cheeks as she says, “You still have time. Do everything you’ve ever wanted to do. Spend time with your loved ones. Live every day to the fullest. Okay?”

I nod.

She tilts her head. “I’ll keep you in my prayers.”

I nod again.

“Can I call someone for you?”

I shake my head and whisper, “I’m going home now.”

“Let me walk you out. Okay?”

I nod again, and when we get up, she wraps her arm around my waist. I pick up my handbag, and somehow my legs manage to move. I keep my head lowered, grateful for the nurse walking with me.

When we reach the exit, I turn to her. “What’s your name?”

“Sarah Bailey.” Her smile is kind, and her eyes warm.