Chapter 22: Desperate Measures
The next morning brought Dr. Hayes earlier than usual, his medical bag in hand and concern creasing his features as he settled into his familiar chair beside my bed.
“I understand we had some difficulties yesterday,” he said gently, preparing the syringe with practiced efficiency. “Mr. Thorne mentioned you were feeling… agitated.”
Agitated. As if discovering that my son had been hidden away on some distant continent was merely a mood swing to be medicated away.
“I’m fine,” I said, though we both knew it was a lie.
“Of course you are. But perhaps we should adjust your treatment slightly. Something to help with the anxiety, the tendency toward obsessive thoughts.”
I watched him draw the clear liquid into the syringe, knowing that once it entered my system, the sharp clarity I’d gained from yesterday’s revelations would dissolve into chemical fog.
“Dr. Hayes,” I said suddenly. “Before you… could I ask you something?”
He paused, needle poised. “Of course.”
“Do I have any family trying to contact me? Anyone who might be worried about my wellbeing?”
Something flickered in his eyes. “What makes you ask that?”
“I just… sometimes I have dreams. About my sister. About conversations we never finished.”
Dr. Hayes glanced toward the door, then back at me with what looked like genuine sympathy. “Mrs. Thorne, your focus needs to be on healing. On moving forward with your new life. Looking backward will only cause you pain.”
“But she might be worried about me. If she’s tried to call—”
“Your husband handles all external communications,” he said firmly. “He filters out anything that might be harmful to your recovery.”
Filters out. Which meant there had been attempts at contact, probably from my Father.
The injection was swift and practiced, but I barely felt the needle’s sting. My mind was racing with this new knowledge. My sister was out there, probably looking for me, probably wondering why I’d disappeared completely.
“Rest now,” Dr. Hayes said, packing up his supplies. “The adjustment may make you feel drowsy for a while.”
As he left, I felt the familiar warmth spreading through my system, the soft edges beginning to blur my thoughts. But this time, I fought against it, clinging to what I’d learned with desperate determination.
I had perhaps an hour before the full effects kicked in, before I became the compliant, grateful wife Adrian expected me to be. One hour to find a way to reach my sister before the drugs stole my clarity again.
Adrian would be in his study for his morning calls—a routine as predictable as clockwork. Lydia would be busy with household tasks. The staff kept to their own schedules, focusing on their duties rather than monitoring my every move.
If I was ever going to find a way to communicate with the outside world, this was my chance.
I forced myself to wait until the house settled into its morning rhythm before slipping out of our bedroom. The effects of the injection were already beginning—a looseness in my limbs, a softening of the urgent desperation that had driven me—but I could still think clearly if I concentrated.
Phone. I need a phone.
Adrian’s study was out of the question. But there had to be other phones in the house, landlines that the staff used, extensions in rooms I hadn’t fully explored.
I found what I was looking for in a small office near the kitchen—clearly used for household management, with schedules pinned to a bulletin board and a rotary phone that looked like it had been there for decades.
My hands shook as I dialed information, got the number for Amari’s firm, and placed the call before I could lose my nerve.
“Cross & Associates, this is Jennifer.”
“I need to speak with Amari West, please. It’s… it’s an emergency.”
“I’m sorry, Ms. West is in a meeting. May I take a message?”
No. A message could be intercepted, filtered, lost in whatever system Adrian used to control my communications.
“Please,” I said, desperation bleeding into my voice. “Tell her it’s her sister. Tell her Calla needs help.”
“Hold on.”
The minutes stretched like hours while I waited, the drug in my system making my thoughts increasingly fuzzy. I could hear footsteps in the hall, voices discussing dinner preparations. Any moment, someone might discover me here.
“I’m sorry,” the receptionist’s voice returned, cooler now. “Ms. West asked me to tell you that she’s unavailable and won’t be taking personal calls during business hours.”
The rejection hit like a physical blow. “Please, just tell her—”
“She also asked me to remind you that you made your choice months ago when you cut off contact with her. She’s not interested in whatever crisis has suddenly made you remember you have a sister.”
Months ago. The wedding. When I’d been so consumed with grief over Alaric, so overwhelmed by the forced marriage and my father’s debts, that I’d pushed everyone away. Including Amari.
“This is different,” I said frantically, aware that my window was closing, that the drugs were making it harder to think clearly. “I’m in real danger. My husband—”
“Ms. West said if you’re having marital problems, you should call a therapist, not her. She wishes you well, but she’s moved on.”
Moved on. As if our entire childhood, our bond as sisters, could be erased by a few months of silence.
“Wait, please—” But the line was already dead.
I stared at the phone in my hand, fighting back tears of frustration and despair. Of course Amari wouldn’t talk to me. Why would she? I’d abandoned her when she’d needed me, when she’d tried to speak to me, chosen Adrian’s world over our family connection.
But I couldn’t give up. Not yet.
“Please call her back,” I said when the receptionist answered again. “Just… just give her a message. Tell her I’m sorry. Tell her I know I hurt her, but I need help. Tell her I have a son I’ve never met, and if she won’t help me, I might never see him.”
There was a pause, then a reluctant sigh. “Hold on.”
This time the wait was shorter, but when the receptionist returned, her voice held a note of finality that made my heart sink.
“Ms. West said to tell you that she’s heard all your apologies before. She said you chose your new family over your real family, and she’s not interested in cleaning up whatever mess you’ve made of your perfect life.”
“But—”
“She also said… and I quote… ‘Tell my sister that actions have consequences. She burned that bridge herself.’”
Footsteps in the corridor, getting closer. I had to finish this before—
“Please,” I whispered desperately. “Just tell her I’m trapped. Tell her Adrian Thorne isn’t who everyone thinks he is. Tell her if something happens to me, she should ask questions.”
“I’ll… I’ll pass along the message,” the receptionist said, her professional demeanor cracking slightly. “But Ms. West was very clear that she’s not available for further contact.”
I hung up just as Lydia appeared in the doorway, her face creased with worry.
“Mrs. Thorne? Are you feeling alright? You look pale.”
“Just needed some water,” I said, hoping my voice sounded normal despite the growing haziness in my thoughts and the crushing weight of Amari’s rejection. “I think Dr. Hayes’s injection is making me a bit lightheaded.”
“Of course. Let me help you back to your room.”
As Lydia guided me through the house, her arm supportive around my waist, I held onto one devastating truth: I did it. I reached her. And she wants nothing to do with me.
The sister I’d counted on, the brilliant woman who’d always been my anchor in childhood storms—she was gone. Lost to months of hurt and abandonment that I’d created with my own choices.
Whether she would even remember the receptionist’s message, whether any part of her still cared enough to worry if something happened to me—those were questions I might never get answered.
Now I just had to hope that somewhere beneath her anger and resentment, the sister who’d once loved me was still there.
And that someday, somehow, I’d get another chance to reach her