Chapter 3 - The Reluctant Step Forward
1040 Words
Elena’s POV
The cursor blinked on my laptop screen like it had a personal vendetta.
"Come on," I muttered. "Just one sentence. One damn sentence."
Nothing. Not a single decent word. Ten years of romance novels, and now? Blank. Not writer’s block, this was a full-blown creative shutdown.
I squinted at the screen. "I can't even see the letters anymore."
The room was quiet, save for the hum of the heater and the soft patter of summer rain tapping the windows. At least the weather was consistent. Unlike Nathan.
His name made my stomach knot.
"Don't think about him. Don’t you dare," I whispered.
Too late. Images flashed, Nathan's smile, his promises, the way he used to say my name like it meant something.
Six months ago, I believed in him.
"Elena, you're it for me," he’d said.
"Liar."
I still saw their faces, his and Rachel’s, when I walked in on them. Not shocked. Not ashamed. Just... annoyance.
"We’re supposed to get engaged this weekend," I’d whispered that night.
He didn’t say a word. Didn’t stop me when I left with nothing but a suitcase and a heart bleeding out in real time.
My eyes burned. I closed the laptop. Writing could wait. Or end.
“What comes after heartbreak and vision loss?” I asked the ceiling.
Silence.
Then, ping. My email. I rubbed my eyes and leaned in.
Subject: URGENT – Ophthalmology Referral
“What the…?” I clicked it. Wolfe Vision Institute? Never heard of it. The details unfolded like something out of a medical drama. Top specialist. Private consult. Transportation provided. No charge.
“Definitely didn’t book this,” I muttered.
At the bottom, a note:
Miss Hart,
I believe we can help. Please come.
—Dr. A. Cole
"Cole." The name rang a bell.
“Wait… Nathan’s uncle?” I whispered.
Dr. Adrian Cole. Trauma surgeon. Big deal. Billionaire genius at the age of 38p. Also, rumored to have no soul.
I stared at the message. “Nathan,” I hissed.
Of course this was him. Guilt. Pity. Regret. Whatever it was, I didn’t need a handout. I hovered over delete, but my vision was fading fast. Faster than the experts predicted.
The last doctor had shrugged. “Nothing else we can do,” he’d said, handing me a pamphlet for a blind writers’ group.
“Maybe this one’s different,” I murmured.
Against every instinct, I clicked Confirm Appointment.
Monday Morning I put on my black maxi dress. Neutral makeup, what I could manage by touch. My cane rested against my leg as I sat by the window.
"Am I really doing this?" I asked no one.
At 8:00 a.m. sharp, a sleek black town car pulled up.
“Of course,” I muttered. “Because subtlety isn’t in the Cole family DNA.”
I grabbed my purse and cane, made my way down the steps slowly, tapping each one with care. The driver opened the door.
“Miss Hart. Dr. Cole is expecting you.”
“No Nathan?” I asked.
He shook his head. “No, ma’am.”
The ride was smooth. The city blurred past in soft shapes and colors. I tried to picture Dr. Cole. “Probably old,” I muttered. “Gray hair, cold hands, ego the size of Texas.”
Men like him didn’t deal with women like me.
When we arrived, I stepped into a building that screamed private money. Glass walls. Polished floors. Subtle music. Everything smelled expensive.
The receptionist smiled like she’d been trained by royalty.
“Miss Hart. Welcome. May I take your bag?”
“I’m fine, thanks.”
She led me to a private waiting room.
One chair. One carafe of water. Silence.
No screaming kids. No cold lights.
“Already suspicious,” I muttered.
Then the door opened. I stood, slowly.
He walked in. And… wow. He wasnt at all ad I had expected. He wasn't old or gray. He was tall, broad-shouldered. Wore a black shirt. No tie. His eyes were sharp enough to cut glass.
"Miss Hart," he said. His voice was low, firm. "I'm Dr. Adrian Cole. Thank you for coming."
I crossed my arms. "I wasn’t exactly given a choice."
His jaw ticked. "If you’d rather leave, you can. But based on your records, you’ve been misdiagnosed, and mistreated. And you’re running out of time."
"Nice to meet you too," I shot back.
"No time for niceties," he said. "I get straight to the point."
"You don’t sugarcoat, huh?"
"Never."
A small smile tugged at my lips. I sat as he gestured to the chair.
He opened a tablet. "Your keratoconus is severe. The shingles only accelerated the damage. Most doctors treat the symptoms separately. That’s a mistake."
I blinked. "So what’s the right approach?"
He looked up. "We need to address both the structural damage and the neural inflammation. Aggressively. Simultaneously."
"In English?"
"You’ll need a biomechanical intervention, likely crosslinking and partial transplant prep, and anti-viral nerve therapy. Two weeks of intensive procedures."
I swallowed. "Will it… work?"
"It can restore some vision. Not all. But better than what you’re heading toward."
I stared at him. "And why would you do this? What’s in it for you?"
He leaned back. "I like fixing what others give up on."
"So this is about pride?"
His gaze hardened. "No. I don’t do favors. Nathan gave me your name. That’s all. He doesn’t know you’re here. I don’t clean up after him."
I raised an eyebrow. "You’re saying this is all you?"
"That’s exactly what I’m saying."
Silence fell between us. Tense. Not hostile. Just full of unspoken questions.
"Okay," I said finally. "Two weeks?"
He nodded once.
"I don’t have much faith left, Dr. Cole."
"Good," he replied. "I don’t work on faith. Just facts."
I stood. "Then let's deal in facts. I'm here. You're the expert. Do what you have to do."
His lips twitched, almost a smile, but not quite.
"Then we begin tomorrow. 7 a.m. Don’t be late."
"Wouldn’t dream of it."
As he walked out, I felt something shift. Not hope. Not yet. But I felt… seen. And that, for the first time in months, was enough.
- Writer
