Chapter 22
Elena's POV
My head throbbed, a pulsing reminder of last night's poor decisions. I groaned, pulling the pillow over my face to block out the morning light.
"Morning, sunshine." Zoe's voice, normally welcome, felt like sandpaper against my raw nerves.
I peeked out from under my pillow shield to find her sitting on the edge of my bed, holding out a glass of water and two pills. Her knowing smile only made my embarrassment worse.
"How bad was I?" I croaked.
"Well, you didn't dance on any tables, if that's what you're worried about." She nudged the water closer.
I groaned again, this time from mortification rather than pain. "Please tell me you're joking."
"Drink. Take these. You'll feel human again... eventually."
I obeyed, swallowing the pills and draining half the glass in desperate gulps.
"You know you can tell me anything, right? No judgment. Whatever it is, we'll figure it out together."
For a moment, I was tempted to spill everything, the contract with Dominic, the money, my father's condition, all of it. But what would she think of me? That I was a prostitute? That I'd sold myself for cash? The thought made my stomach turn.
"I appreciate that," I said instead. "But right now, I need to shower and check on my dad. I haven't been to the hospital in days."
Zoe nodded. "Okay. Just... I'm here, alright? Whenever you're ready to talk."
The shower helped clear my head, washing away the stale smell of alcohol and the lingering sensation of Dominic's hands on my skin. I dressed in simple jeans and a sweater, deliberately choosing clothes that weren't part of his "approved wardrobe." A small act of rebellion, but it felt good.
The hospital hallways were quiet when I arrived, visiting hours just beginning. I nodded to the nurses at their station, they smiled warmly at me.
When I pushed open the door to my father's room, I froze. The bed was slightly elevated, and my father's eyes—eyes I hadn't seen open in months—were staring blankly at the ceiling.
"Dad?" My voice came out as a strangled whisper.
His head turned slowly toward me, his movements jerky and uncoordinated. His eyes found mine, and for a moment, there was nothing, no recognition, no emotion, just empty staring. Then, gradually, something flickered in their depths.
"E-El...ena?" His voice was rough from disuse, barely audible.
Tears blurred my vision as I rushed to his bedside, gripping his frail hand in mine. "Yes! Yes, it's me, Dad. It's Elena."
"Elena," he repeated, the name sounding strange on his lips, as if he were testing it. "My... daughter."
A sob escaped me. "Yes. Your daughter. I'm here now."
The doctor arrived minutes later, explaining that my father had regained consciousness two days ago. They'd been monitoring him carefully, assessing his cognitive function and motor skills. The verdict was both miraculous and heartbreaking, he was awake, but significantly impaired. The damage from the accident, compounded by years of alcohol abuse, had left him in a semi-vegetative state.
"He can recognize people and respond to simple commands," Dr. Morris explained gently. "But his higher cognitive functions are severely damaged. He'll need constant care, possibly for the rest of his life."
"What kind of care?" I asked, my mind already racing through impossible financial calculations.
"Ideally, a specialized facility with round-the-clock nursing staff." He handed me a brochure for a rehabilitation center that looked more like a luxury resort than a hospital. "Mr. Lucchesi recommended this place. They have an excellent program for traumatic brain injury patients."
Dominic. Of course. Even now, his influence was everywhere in my life.
"And if that's not an option?" I pressed, knowing full well I couldn't afford such a place without Dominic's money, money that came with strings I was increasingly unwilling to accept.
Dr. Morris frowned. "There are home care options, but they're challenging. Your father would need assistance with everything from feeding to bathing. It's not something I would recommend for a single caregiver, especially one with other responsibilities like school."
"Home," my father mumbled, his fingers tightening weakly around mine. "Want... go home."
My heart sank. "Dad, you need specialized care. The kind they can provide here, or at a rehabilitation facility."
"Home," he insisted, more forcefully this time. "Please."
I looked at him,this broken shell of the man who had once been strong enough to carry me on his shoulders, who had taught me to ride a bike, who had held me while I cried after my mother died. For all his flaws, all his failures, he was still my father.
"I'll figure something out," I promised.
Just as I got home, I ran into Elaine.
"What is the meaning of this?" Her shrill voice preceded her into the living room. "Why is he here? He's supposed to be in the hospital!"
"He's been discharged," I replied, setting down the bag of medications on the coffee table. "The doctors felt he could continue his recovery at home."
"Home?" she sputtered, her face reddening. "This isn't a nursing facility! I can't be expected to care for an invalid!"
"I'll be taking care of him," I said, fighting to keep my voice level. "All you need to do is continue living your life exactly as you have been—pretending we don't exist."
Elaine's eyes narrowed dangerously. "And how do you plan to manage that while attending your classes, working your jobs, and maintaining your... arrangements?"
"I'll figure it out," I repeated.
She glared at me for a long moment before spinning on her heel and storming out, muttering about "ungrateful burdens" and "not being a nursemaid."
"Elena," he mumbled, reaching for my hand with clumsy movements.
"I'm here, Dad." I squeezed his hand gently.
"Stay." His eyes locked with mine. "Don't... leave me."
A lump formed in my throat. "I won't leave you, Dad. I promise."
But as he drifted off to sleep, I stared at the pile of medication, the written care instructions, the specialized equipment that had been delivered, and felt a wave of despair crash over me. How was I supposed to manage this?