Chapter Seven: What does it all mean?
859 Words
The hospital smelled like antiseptic and faded hope.
It was strange walking through the entrance again—this time not clutching a cane or reaching for someone’s hand. I walked on my own, shoulders straight, sunglasses hiding my still-sensitive eyes. The world felt sharper. Brighter. Like it had been waiting for me to wake up.
Dr. Knox’s office was at the end of the hall. The receptionist did a double take when she saw me.
“Elara?” she said, almost whispering. “You look…”
“Like someone who can finally see?” I offered, lifting the edge of my glasses with a small smile.
She laughed awkwardly. “Dr. Knox is expecting you. You can go right in.”
I knocked once before stepping inside.
Dr. Knox looked up from her tablet. “There she is.” She stood, walking over to me with a gentle expression. “Let me get a look at you.”
I removed the sunglasses, and for a moment, we simply stared at each other. Her eyes searched mine carefully.
“Tracking looks good. Any pressure? Flashes of light? Headaches?”
“No more than usual,” I said, slipping into the chair across from her. “Things are clearer now. Colors… they hit differently.”
She nodded and jotted something down. “You’re lucky. The healing process has been textbook so far. No signs of rejection.”
I folded my hands in my lap. “And the timeline?”
Knox hesitated. “We still don’t know for certain. You could have six months. Maybe two years. We’ll monitor it closely.”
I nodded slowly. “Still better than nothing.”
A brief silence passed between us before she spoke again, softer this time.
“Someone’s been asking about you.”
I blinked. “What?”
She tapped the back of her pen against the table. “Discreetly. Through another doctor. They asked about your prognosis. Your vision.”
I leaned forward. “Who?”
“I can’t say.”
“Can’t or won’t?” My tone came out sharper than I intended.
Knox gave me a long look. “It’s confidential, Elara.”
My pulse quickened. “Is it Landon?”
Her gaze didn’t flicker. “I didn’t say that.”
“But you didn’t deny it either.”
Knox set the pen down. “You’re not in danger. And you’re not being followed, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
I offered a dry laugh. “That’s exactly what someone would say if I was being followed.”
She folded her arms. “You came here to be monitored, not to stir up ghosts.”
“Ghosts have a habit of showing up uninvited,” I muttered, rising from my chair. “Thanks for the update.”
“Elara—” Her voice was firm. “Whatever you’re planning, be careful. You’re still healing.”
“I’ve never seen the world so clearly,” I said, slipping my sunglasses back on. “That’s what scares them.”
As I walked back through the hallway toward the elevators, I slowed when I passed the nurses’ break room.
“…he’s hosting another one next Friday. Same stupid tux event with the violin music and champagne,” a woman was saying, laughing.
“Are you going?” another voice asked.
“Only to get a glimpse of Dante Pierce. The man could freeze lava with one look.”
“Or melt a room. Depending on who you ask,” the first nurse quipped.
I paused just outside the door.
Dante.
I leaned slightly closer.
“I heard he’s sponsoring that new neuroscience wing,” someone else chimed in. “Wants to be known as the billionaire with a conscience.”
“Too bad his son’s the devil,” another muttered.
Landon.
I stiffened.
“That family’s got more secrets than the Vatican,” someone whispered.
Their laughter faded as I stepped away, heart pounding.
Dante Pierce. Hosting a charity gala.
I didn’t believe in coincidence. Not anymore.
If he was sponsoring neurological research, it wouldn’t be a stretch to assume he’d been watching the latest experimental procedures… including mine.
Had he known? Had he orchestrated something behind the scenes?
No.
This wasn’t about him caring. This was a doorway. A path. My fingers itched for a computer. By the time I got back to the guest house, I’d shed my jacket and kicked off my shoes before even closing the door.
I sat at the dusty desk in the corner of the living room and powered up my old laptop. It creaked to life slowly, the screen dim, the fan groaning like a machine from another decade.
I pulled out a slip of paper from an old envelope tucked in the drawer and typed in the login to a private email I hadn’t touched in years.
When the inbox loaded, most of it was junk. But one subject line stopped my breath. Ever since I blocked him, he's been trying to reach me through other numbers. But this, screamed desperate.
"We need to talk."
From: Landon.
Was he doing this to get me back?
- Writer
