Chapter 151

Chapter 151
Mia's POV
The doctor told his assistant to pack up the medical kit, then turned toward the door. I followed close behind, my chest tight with a worry I couldn't quite name. When we reached the sitting room, I stopped him.
"Is it bad?" I asked. "His condition—how serious is it really?"
The doctor let out a long breath. "Miss Mia, I think it's time I was fully honest with you." He turned to face me. "The most critical injury Mr. Smith sustained isn't the gunshot wound. It's the head trauma. He received a severe blow to the skull before he went into the water, and there's still a hematoma—a collection of blood—pressing against the brain tissue. You could see it clearly on the scans."
I nodded slowly. The moment my people had pulled Vincent out of the ocean, I'd had the doctor run a full workup. The bullet wound had been manageable—nothing vital hit, and once it was removed, rest would do the rest.
The hematoma was another matter.
"But you said we'd have to monitor it," I said. "Are you telling me that's why he won't wake up? The bleed?"
The doctor gave a single, grave nod. "Yes. And I need you to prepare yourself."
"No." The word came out before I could stop it. I shook my head. "I don't want to hear whatever you're about to say. I don't care what it costs—I don't care what it takes. I need him awake."
I had worked too hard for this. I had spent months maneuvering every piece into place, and I had finally done it—Nydia was gone, Vincent was here, and this was supposed to be the beginning of something new. He could not just lie there indefinitely.
I wouldn't allow it.
"Money is not an obstacle," I said flatly. "Name your price. Whatever you need."
The doctor raised a hand. "Miss Mia, you've misunderstood me. I'm your personal physician—treating you and your guests is my responsibility. I'm not asking for compensation." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "The challenge isn't waking Mr. Smith. It's what may happen after he wakes up. That's what I'm trying to prepare you for."
I stared at him. "What do you mean? He can wake up?"
"Yes, of course. The hematoma will respond to treatment—I'll put him on an IV protocol to help the blood reabsorb. As that pressure clears, he should regain consciousness naturally."
"How long?"
"A week. Perhaps less, given his physical condition."
"You're certain?"
"I give you my word."
The relief was immediate, but it didn't last. Because he had also said what may happen after, and those words were sitting in the back of my mind like a lit fuse.
I gestured to the chair across from me. "Sit down. Tell me what you meant—the complications. All of them."
The doctor settled into the seat and folded his hands. "There's a possibility of memory loss," he said carefully. "In my career, I've treated several patients with injuries very similar to Mr. Smith's—same location, same mechanism, same prolonged unconscious state. When they woke up, the majority experienced some degree of memory impairment."
"Memory loss," I repeated.
"The range varies considerably. Some patients couldn't remember who they were. Others lost specific people—family members, close friends, romantic partners. A few only lost a defined period of time while retaining their general sense of self and identity. It's highly individual." He leaned forward slightly. "I want to be clear—I'm presenting this as a possibility, not a certainty. Mr. Smith may wake up with his memory entirely intact. His overall health is exceptional. But I felt you deserved to know the risk before it happened."
I sat very still.
And then something shifted inside me—quiet, electric, immediate.
If Vincent woke up and didn't remember Nydia—
I thought about the first time I'd seen him. The way he'd walked into a room and made every other person in it irrelevant. That particular quality of stillness he carried—the cool intelligence in his eyes, the composure that never slipped, no matter what was thrown at him. I had been completely undone by him within minutes, and I had never fully recovered.
I had been patient. I had been strategic. I had given him time, created opportunities, tried to let things develop naturally.
And then Nydia had appeared, and within what felt like no time at all, she had what I had been working toward for years.
When she'd been in Italy, I'd arranged for someone at the dance studio to undermine her—to chip away at the image she was building, to fracture whatever Vincent thought he saw in her. Nydia had been smarter than I'd anticipated. She'd cleared her name without any real difficulty, and I'd walked away from that failed attempt knowing I needed a different approach.
So I'd engineered the yacht party. Anthony had offered to host; I'd accepted without hesitation. I'd reached out to Tanner, set the terms of our arrangement, and watched the plan take shape exactly as I'd intended. Nydia had been removed. Vincent had been found—by my people, ahead of anyone else—and brought here, to my home.
The only variable I hadn't accounted for was the hematoma.
But now the doctor was telling me that same hematoma might have already done something I couldn't have arranged myself.
I reached out and grabbed his hand before I'd consciously decided to.
He looked at me, startled. "Miss Mia, are you all right?"
"I need to ask you something," I said. "And I need you to hear me out before you respond."
"Of course."
"I need you to help me ensure that when he wakes up, he doesn't remember." I kept my voice steady, deliberate. "I want him to lose his memory. Is there a way to make that happen—something you can administer, some kind of injection? Can you do that?"
The doctor went completely still. The expression on his face flattened into something unreadable.
"You heard me correctly," I said, before he could ask. "I don't want him to recover those memories. Whatever he had before—whoever he thought he was going back to—I want that gone. Is it possible?"
Silence.
"Is it possible?" I pressed.
"You're certain this is what you want?"
"I'm certain."
He was quiet for another long moment. Then, slowly, he nodded. "It can be done."
My heart slammed against my ribs.
I told him to prepare whatever he needed. To move quickly.
---
He came back that same evening, the kit in his hands, his expression professionally neutral.
"Miss Mia." He stopped at the doorway of the room where Vincent lay. "Before we proceed—I want to confirm. Once this is administered, it can't be reversed. The effect will be permanent, or close to it. You understand that?"
"I understand." I looked at Vincent's face—pale, still, but breathing with a steadiness that hadn't been there at the start of the week. "Do it."
I had been entirely clear-headed about this since the moment the idea had formed. With his memory gone, Vincent would be starting from nothing—a clean slate. Every piece of information he received about himself, about his life, about the world around him, would come from me.
I had loved him for years. Quietly, completely, and without any acknowledgment in return.
It was long past time I gave myself the chance I deserved.