Chapter 6 Please Help Me
1214 Words
When Celeste stirred awake again, the first face she registered was the familiar ER doctor who had treated her infected hand days prior.
Weak and disoriented, she lifted her bandaged right hand with a shaky, hopeful gaze, her voice thin and hoarse from disuse.
"Doctor, will my hand recover properly?" she asked, her chest tight with quiet dread, clinging to the smallest shred of hope.
The doctor was adjusting the IV drip hooked to her forearm at the time, and the crease between his brows visible above his surgical mask softened into unmistakable helplessness.
"Ms. Winter, I warned you once before that this hand needed meticulous, careful care—no exceptions, no risks," he said gently, his tone laced with sympathy.
He hesitated for a beat, then delivered the crushing truth plainly.
"Irritating, harmful substances were applied to your open wound, leaving it severely inflamed and infected long before the crash. On top of that, the blunt force trauma from the accident caused bone displacement in your hand. It will be extremely difficult for it to heal fully."
Celeste stared at him blankly, her mind struggling to process the devastating words. For a long, silent moment, she said nothing—then she curled inward, pulling the thin hospital blanket up to her chin and breaking into violent, uncontrollable sobs, her entire body shaking with grief and despair.
The doctor had no words to comfort her, no easy reassurance to offer, so he spoke softly, grasping at the only positive piece of news he could share.
"There is one bit of good fortune, though, Ms. Winter. Against all odds, the fetus in your womb survived the crash completely unharmed."
As a busy emergency physician, he had no way of knowing Celeste had never planned to keep this child.
Celeste lifted her uninjured left hand and placed it gently over her flat stomach.
Inside her was a tiny life, a piece of her and Felix, a child she had once never dared to hope for—but now, it was the last thing she wanted.
She would have traded this unborn baby a hundred times over to have her healthy, capable right hand back.
Her hand was her livelihood, her passion, her dream—the one thing that defined her outside of Felix, the one thing she could hold onto even without him by her side.
A nurse arrived shortly after with a tray of hospital meals. But Celeste had no appetite whatsoever.
"You need to eat something, Ms. Winter. Proper nutrition will help your body heal, and you need strength right now," the doctor said gently, his tone kind but firm.
Not wanting to dismiss the doctor's genuine kindness, Celeste forced herself to sit up slightly, picking up the small spoon and taking a tiny sip of the broth.
She frowned immediately, confusion clouding her tear-streaked face.
"Is there no salt added to this soup?" she asked quietly.
The nurse looked up from tidying the tray, puzzlement in her expression. "Not at all—it's mild, yes, but it's definitely seasoned."
A jolt of icy terror shot through Celeste, as if a bolt of lightning had struck her square in the chest.
She fumbled for the fork and stabbed a piece of steamed broccoli, shoving it into her mouth—but it was like chewing on plain, flavorless cardboard.
She tried a bite of mashed potatoes, then a sip of water, and nothing registered on her tongue.
Her sense of taste was completely gone.
Panic surged through her, and she reached out frantically, grabbing the doctor's arm with her good hand.
"I-I can't taste anything—nothing at all. I can't do this, I'm an executive chef—" she said, her voice breaking with raw fear.
The doctor calmed her quickly, ordering urgent neurological tests to assess the damage.
Once the results came back, he delivered the news with a heavy heart. "The severe trauma from the car crash damaged the sensory nerves in your head and throat, Ms. Winter. Your taste loss is temporary for now."
Celeste parted her lips, swallowing hard to hold back her sobs, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. "How long will it take to get better?"
The doctor hesitated, his gaze sympathetic but honest. "It could be a day or two, it could be years... or it could be..."
He didn't need to finish the sentence; Celeste heard the unspoken truth loud and clear. She might never taste anything again.
A whirlwind of guilt and anger tore through her.
'Who am I to blame? Beatrice, for worming her way into my life and home? Or Felix, for choosing another woman over me, even in the split second between life and death?'
Then, a desperate spark of hope flickered in her chest—a last, fragile lifeline.
She grabbed the doctor's hand again, her voice urgent and shaky, desperate for answers.
"Before I was admitted, was there another woman brought in from a car crash? With a man in his thirties?" she asked quickly, her eyes wide with hope.
The doctor nodded immediately. "Yes, they're in the top-floor VIP suite."
Without hesitation, she ran through the sterile hospital hallways, ignoring the sharp pain in her hand and the dizziness clouding her mind, until she reached the top floor VIP wing.
There, leaning against the wall outside the private suite, was Felix, smoking a cigarette.
The scent of tobacco mixed with a faint, sweet floral perfume—not hers—clung to his clothes, making Celeste's head spin with nausea.
But he was her last hope, the only person she thought could fix this.
She stumbled forward, grabbing his arm tightly, her voice pleading and desperate. "Felix, you know the best surgeons, the best specialists in the country. Please help me—my hand is permanently damaged, and I lost my sense of taste."
Felix's brows furrowed almost imperceptibly, a flicker of annoyance crossing his face before he schooled his features. "You lost your sense of taste?"
Celeste's lips trembled as she repeated everything the doctor had told her, pouring out her fear and despair, begging for his help. She didn't notice the way his frown deepened with every word, the way he looked at her with thinly veiled distaste.
'A chef with a crippled hand and no taste buds is worthless to any hotel or restaurant. A woman who can't bear me a child...'
The old Celeste had been bright, fierce, and unshakable—she'd created showstopping dishes to win back clients when his competitors mocked him, run flawless large-scale banquets so he never had to worry about a thing, loved him unconditionally, forgiven his flaws, and bent over backward to make him happy.
This Celeste was pale, haggard, and hysterical, a shadow of her former self. He didn't want to look at her, didn't want to deal with her brokenness.
Felix didn't even let her finish speaking. A faint, pained whimper cut through the air from inside the VIP suite, high and fragile—Beatrice calling for him, "Felix? Where are you?"
"I'm right here," Felix called back immediately, his tone softening instantly.
He roughly pulled his arm free from Celeste's grip, pushing her back slightly. "We'll talk about this later. I need to check on Beatrice first."
- Writer
