Rescued by the billionaire

CHAPTER SIX: Uninvited guest

It was surprising how Isobel had recovered, her physical strength and resilience a testament to the human body's ability to heal; it's been two weeks since she woke up, and yet, still no memory of her past had surfaced, no glimmer of recognition, no spark of recollection; her days were filled with a sense of detachment, a feeling of being suspended in a state of limbo, as she struggled to piece together the fragments of her life; and every night, a lingering nightmare would creep in, a manifestation of the deep-seated fear and trauma that she had endured, a fear that she couldn't quite put into words, but one that left her shaken and trembling; though she didn't seem to remember the nightmares themselves, the fear lingered, a palpable presence that haunted her, a constant reminder of the darkness that lurked within her subconscious.

I've hired an expert psychologist to study her case, a specialist with a reputation for working with patients with trauma-induced amnesia, but despite their best efforts, all seem to be stumped on how to stop the nightmares that plague her every night, or how to go about getting her to regain her memories quickly; the experts have pored over her case, offering various theories and suggestions, but so far, none have been able to provide a solution that seems to work; "It's a process, Mr. Carrington," the doctor keeps saying, her voice patient but firm, "we can't force her body to do what it doesn't want to do, she'll have to get there herself"; the doctor's words are a reminder that healing is a journey, not a destination, and that Isobel's recovery will be a gradual one, marked by small steps and incremental progress, rather than sudden breakthroughs or epiphanies.

I walk into the kitchen, and I'm met with a warm and inviting scene: my mother, Amanda Carrington, and Isobel, standing side by side, their faces lit up with laughter as they cook together, the aroma of freshly baked goods wafting through the air; I'm taken aback, wondering when my mother had arrived, as I hadn't heard any boat or helicopter approaching the island, but knowing Amanda, she probably arrived by chopper, her preference for swift and efficient transportation well-known; I pause for a moment, trying to recall if I had been that engrossed in my thoughts or exhausted to the point of not hearing the chopper's arrival, but it's unlikely, given my usual awareness of the surroundings; my mother's ability to move stealthily, especially when it comes to her helicopter, is impressive, but I'm left with a sense of curiosity about when exactly she had arrived, and how Isobel and she had already become so comfortable with each other.

Isobel had another nightmare last night, her body shaking and trembling with fear as she cried out in her sleep, her voice hoarse from screaming; I'd rushed to her side, trying to calm her down, holding her close as she clung to me, her tears soaking my shirt; I'd spoken softly, trying to reassure her, telling her that she was safe, that I was there, but she'd been beyond consolation, lost in the grip of her terror; eventually, exhaustion had taken over, and she'd fallen asleep, her body limp and still in my arms; I'd sat there for a while, holding her, watching over her, feeling a deep sense of concern and helplessness; when I was sure she was okay, I'd gently laid her down, covered her with a blanket, and returned to my own room, the memory of her cries still echoing in my mind, leaving me with a sense of unease and worry about her well-being.

But here she was, smiling and laughing like nothing had happened, her eyes sparkling with joy as she worked alongside my mother in the kitchen, a stark contrast to the shattered and frightened girl she'd been just hours before; this was what I'd meant when I said she doesn't remember the nightmares, her mind seemed to compartmentalize the trauma, locking it away from her waking thoughts, but the physical and emotional toll still lingered;

"Aaron," my mom called out, her voice warm and affectionate, as her eyes landed on me, and she walked towards me to give me a kiss; and Isobel, seemingly unaware of the complexities of our relationship, imitated her action, walking towards me with a sweet smile, her arms open for a hug, and I felt a pang of guilt for liking it a little too much, for feeling a sense of pleasure at her gentle affection; my mom smiled, seemingly oblivious to the turmoil I'd been experiencing, and I realized that Isobel did this often, imitated people's actions, almost like a child learning social cues, and I guessed it was her way of navigating the world, of figuring out how to be and how to interact with others.

"Hi, Mom, what are you doing here?" I asked, and she pretended to be a little hurt, her expression feigning offense, before replying, "Can't I see my son when I want to?" her voice dripping with innocence; she paused, a sly smile spreading across her face, "Besides, Lily called," she said, her eyes sparkling with curiosity, "she said you have a guest, and I just had to come see for myself";

I raised an eyebrow, knowing Lily's role in my life extended far beyond that of a housekeeper and cook, she was also my mom's unofficial informant, keeping her abreast of my every move, and now, it seemed, she'd reported on Isobel's presence; I couldn't help but chuckle at my mom's transparent motives, her desire to know more about Isobel driven by a mix of maternal curiosity and, no doubt, a dash of meddling.

We all had breakfast together, the warm sunlight streaming through the windows as we sat around the table, the sound of clinking dishes and gentle conversation filling the air; my mom, ever the matriarch, took charge of the conversation, discussing plans for the future, specifically, returning to the city with Isobel; "It's time she had a social life, dear," she said, her voice filled with conviction,

"maybe being around people, having company, will help her recover faster"; she pointed out that Isobel had been stuck with me on this island for over a month now, and that it was probably good for her to get out, experience new things, and interact with people her own age; I couldn't argue with her logic, as I'd been thinking along similar lines myself, but I'd been hesitant to make any decisions, unsure if Isobel was ready for the hustle and bustle of city life, worried that it might overwhelm her fragile state; but hearing my mom now, I realized she was probably right, and that a change of scenery and some social interaction could be just what Isobel needed; and as I watched my mom's enthusiasm grow, I couldn't help but think that she had an ulterior motive, that she'd always wanted a daughter to go shopping with, to share in the joys of feminine pursuits, and now, it seemed, she'd found a willing partner in Isobel; I smiled to myself, thinking that my mom had probably found a new project, a new person to mother and guide, and Isobel, in turn, might just benefit from having a maternal figure in her life.