Chapter 23 #23
Chapter 23
~ Shailyn ~
"I don't know," I admitted, pressing my hand to my forehead where the headache was the worst. "It just felt like déjà vu. Like I'd witnessed you two fighting before. But I can't remember when, or why, or anything concrete. Just that feeling."
Dante and Dwayne were staring at each other now, some silent communication passing between them that I couldn't decode. Dante's jaw was tight, his expression guarded. Dwayne looked... worried? Guilty? I couldn't tell.
"You haven't," Dante said firmly, turning back to me. "That was the first time Dwayne and I have fought like that since he came back. You probably just felt it was familiar because, well, brothers fighting isn't exactly uncommon."
But that didn't feel right. The sensation had been so specific, so visceral. Not just "brothers fighting" but this particular fight. These particular men.
I opened my mouth to press further, to try to articulate what I'd felt…
"Boys." Tyler's voice cut through the tension like a blade. He turned his wheelchair to face both his sons, his expression stern. "A word. Now."
"Father, I should stay with Shailyn…" Dante started.
"Now,” Tyler repeated, his tone brooking no argument.
Reluctantly, Dante released my hand and stood. He and Dwayne followed Tyler out into the hallway, and I could hear the low rumble of Tyler's voice beginning what I assumed would be a serious reprimand.
Monica slipped out after them, probably to eavesdrop. Cynthia gave me one long, unreadable look before following her daughter.
Which left me alone with the family doctor, an older man named Dr. Harrison whom I vaguely recognized from earlier hospital visits.
"How are you feeling, Mrs. Belmar?" he asked, pulling a chair closer to the bed.
"Tired. My head hurts. Confused."
He nodded sympathetically. "That's to be expected. You've had a significant shock to your system, both the physical trauma from your fall and the mental stress of trying to force memories that aren't ready to surface yet."
"I wasn't trying to force anything," I protested weakly. "It just... came. This overwhelming sense of familiarity."
"Even so." He pulled out a small flashlight and checked my pupils, apparently satisfied with what he saw. "I'm going to strongly recommend that you rest. Really rest. Stop stressing yourself trying to remember things. The harder you push, the more you'll exhaust yourself and potentially slow down your recovery."
"But..."
"No buts," he said gently but firmly. "Your brain has been through a trauma. It needs time to heal, just like a broken bone would. You can't force healing, Mrs. Belmar. You have to be patient and let it happen naturally."
"I understand," I finally murmured.
"Good." Dr. Harrison stood and packed up his medical bag. "I'll check on you again tomorrow. For now, just rest. Your husband will take care of you."
After he left, I heard more voices in the hallway, Tyler finishing his lecture, from the sounds of it. Something about responsibility and setting an example and not acting like children.
Eventually, everyone filed out, leaving me alone in the bedroom. The silence was both a relief and somehow oppressive. I closed my eyes, trying to ease the headache, trying not to think about that flash of déjà vu that had felt so real.
Maybe the doctor was right. Maybe I was pushing too hard.
I realized I might be pushing myself too hard to remember everything all at once. Maybe I just needed to focus on the present. On being with Dante. On rebuilding our relationship in the here and now, rather than trying to excavate the past.
I let myself drift off to sleep, still exhausted from the events of the day.
\---
The next morning, I woke up beside Dante. He was still asleep, one arm draped possessively across my waist, his face relaxed in a way it never was when he was awake.
For a moment, I just lay there, watching him sleep, trying to reconcile this peaceful version of my husband with the raging man I'd seen fighting his brother yesterday.
Then I heard it. Loud knocking from somewhere downstairs. Insistent, urgent knocking, accompanied by shouting.
"Hello? HELLO? Is anyone there? Please, I need to speak to someone! It's urgent!"
The voice sounded familiar, but I couldn't quite place it.
Dante stirred beside me, groaning. "What the hell is that noise?"
I slipped out of bed, pulling on a robe. "Someone's at the door. Sounds urgent."
"Let the staff get it," Dante mumbled, rolling over.
But something about that voice pulled at me. I needed to know who it was.
I made my way downstairs, following the sound of continued knocking and shouting. Other members of the household were beginning to emerge as well staff members hurrying toward the front entrance, Tyler's assistant wheeling him out of his study.
When I reached the bottom of the grand staircase, I could see someone through the glass panels beside the front door. A woman, her posture frantic, her hands beating against the wood.
And suddenly, like a door opening in my mind, I knew who it was.
Aunt Patricia.
And with that knowledge came a flood of other memories,fragmented but real. Aunt Patricia's house. Max. My mother is lying in a hospital bed, unable to speak, unable to move.
Mum.
Oh God. My mum.
Mr. Harvey, The butler had opened the door by now, and Aunt Patricia practically fell inside, her face wild with panic.
"I need to see Shailyn!" she was saying. "Please, where is Shailyn? It's an emergency! I need…"
"I'm here," I called out, rushing down the last few steps.
Aunt Patricia's head whipped around at the sound of my voice. When she saw me, relief and terror warred on her face.
"Shailyn!" She ran toward me, nearly tripping over her own feet in her haste. "Shailyn, your mum. Your mum…"
Fear gripped me. Cold, terrible fear that wrapped around my heart and squeezed.
Aunt Patricia was trying to speak, but the words were coming out all wrong. She was panicked, hyperventilating, her sentences fragmenting into incoherent pieces.
"She… the hospital called … I tried… they said… we need to…"
"Aunt Patricia, breathe," I grabbed her shoulders, trying to steady her even as my own hands shook. "Breathe. What happened to my mum?"
But she just kept rambling, tears streaming down her face now, her words a jumbled mess of syllables that made no sense.
"What happened to my mum?" I demanded, louder this time, my voice sharp with fear. Aunt Patricia, please! What happened