The make up artist shows me a mirror and my mouth falls open. My eyelashes look twice as long.
Logan isn’t impressed. “I don’t think this is a good idea.”
“You can’t hide me away in the castle forever.”
“Yes, I can,” Logan growls.
The makeup artist’s eyes grow round. I thank her and she nods and backs away.
“Logan.” I hold out my hand.
He’s at my side in an instant, his big hand swallowing mine.
“You can’t keep me here,” I tell him. “It’s not healthy.”
“As your doctor, I disagree.”
“I know. You’ve made that quite clear.” I give a slight tug and he sinks into a chair beside me. I struggle with what I’m going to say next, but Logan waits patiently. “My father always wanted to hide my illness. It was important to him for me to hold up appearances, especially when investors started taking interest in Belladonna. He thought a sick daughter would tarnish Belladonna’s image.”
“Fuck that,” Logan explodes. Rage ripples through his big body, but he keeps his grip gentle.
“Fuck him,” he adds in a harsh whisper. “I’m not your father. I’m not hiding you away. I just want to keep you safe, make sure you don’t relapse and… Fuck!”
He half turns away, his chest rising and falling so rapidly I fear for the seams of his bespoke suit.
“I know, I know,” I soothe. I squeeze his hand, my grip fragile as a newborn’s. “I know you’re not my father. And I’m no longer following that old script.” The words are ashes on my tongue.
Every day I wonder if I’m going to fall back into the patterns I’ve lived out my whole life. Can I fight the disease and keep my new identity? Only time will tell.
I grab Logan’s hand with both of mine. “Tell me what you’re afraid of.”
Logan brings my hands to his face, pressing his lips to my fingers. His answer is muffled. “I don’t want to lose you.”
My heart squeezes at his vulnerable tone. “My numbers are better, right?”
“Yes.”
“So much so that when Cora called, asking if I could help with the Healing Garden, you said it would be okay.”
“Yes.” He’s still not raised his head to meet my gaze.
“And I’ve been practicing. Going out to the greenhouse, going down to the gardens.” Not that I’ve done so much as lift a spade or a hand trowel.
When Cora first called, she only wanted my advice on garden design. I poured over my mother’s journals and crafted a proposal, excited for the distraction. I even donated several of my mother’s hybrids to the cause. Planning a garden in my mother's memory gave my restless mind something to focus on.
And my numbers steadily improved each week, otherwise Logan would’ve ordered me to stop.
Tonight is the opening event.
“It’s important for me to do this.” I free my left hand so I can stroke his dark hair. “It’s just a ribbon cutting. No heavy lifting required. I promise to let you know when I’m starting to get tired.” I slide my fingers around his freshly-shaven jaw and lift his head. “This is important to me,” I whisper.
“You’re so brave.” He’s still not looking at me. “You amaze me.”
“I amaze myself,” I joke.
Despite my declarations, I fall asleep in the limo, waking only when the car stops. When I look out the tinted window at the crowds, I feel the first pang of dismay. Cora Ubeli knows how to attract free publicity. She’s probably invited a bunch of movie stars and famous billionaires to ensure the garden gets as much press as possible.
Sure enough, there’s a red carpet lined with paparazzi. Logan and I will have to run that gauntlet. My stomach flips.
Logan glowers at them. “Say the word, and we’ll go right back home.”
“No. I want to do this.”
If not for me, then for all the Battleman’s patients watching the news while waiting for their infusions. For the first time, they’ll watch all the VIPs gliding down the red carpet and see one of their own.
Logan gets out first to assist the driver in getting my chair ready.
I smooth my skirt and straighten my silk blouse. The neckline is a little lower than I’m comfortable with, but the stylist assured me it was in vogue. The outfit is elegant and classy.
Even my wheelchair is fancy, a sleek, state of the art machine with heated seats, mecanum wheels and a rose gold finish. The control pad at my fingertips looks like it was designed by NASA. My wheelchair can’t hover or shoot rockets, but I’m sure those features will be in the next upgrade.
It’s important to me to be seen in public. I may be sick, but I’m still alive and fighting.
Logan parks my chair close by and opens my door. “Are you ready? We can still go back home.”
“I’m doing this,” I reply firmly. A reluctant grin tugs at the corner of his mouth.
“I thought you might say that.” He lifts me easily and sets me in the chair. I fuss with my skirt as he dismisses the driver. A few photographers turned to investigate when Logan appeared. Now that I’m in my wheelchair, they raise their cameras.
I jerk up my chin. Logan’s hand settles on my shoulder for a second. A reassuring squeeze, and he starts pushing me up the red carpet. I almost protest that I can wheel myself, but my arms are weak and wobbly.
I flinch at the first camera flash, but I don’t look away. The red carpet stretches on forever, a gauntlet of glaring lights and black lenses. I force myself to curve my red lips and pretend to preen in the attention. I raise my hand and wave like a queen.
“Daphne Laurel—” a few reporters shout, waving for my attention. They shove microphones in my direction.
“It’s Doctor Laurel. And no comment,” Logan rumbles, and pushes me faster.
As soon as we get to the end of the red carpet and inside, my spine wilts. My forehead is sweaty from the heat of the lights. People are rushing to greet us. Above my head, Logan is rapping out orders, while I concentrate on staying upright and continuing to breathe.
After a moment, Logan quickly wheels me to the right, where an aide in a black suit leads us down a side hall to a set of elevators. I don’t relax until Logan wheels me in and the doors shut. For a few seconds, we can hide.
Logan crouches before me and hands me an open bottle of water. I let the cool stream wet my throat, being careful not to rinse off any makeup. As much as I want to wash my face and admit defeat.
“My makeup is probably ruined.”
“It’s fine,” Logan says curtly. His big form practically vibrates with tension. I know he’s wishing he could go back and punch some of the reporters in the face.
My fingers find his. “Logan, I’m fine.”
“You did good. My brave girl.”
“Now I just have to get through the ribbon cutting.” I stare at the lighted numbers signaling our climb to the rooftop garden.
Logan paces to the panel. He considers it a moment before he punches a button.
The elevator shudders to a stop.
“Logan! What are you doing?”
Logan turns and eyes me as if he didn’t do something crazy, like stop a moving elevator. “Who did Cora invite to this?”