Chapter 32: Fractures
The nightmares started three nights after the television interview.
I would wake gasping, my heart hammering against my ribs, sheets damp with sweat and the lingering taste of terror in my mouth. But every time I tried to grasp what had frightened me so badly, the images would slip away like smoke, leaving only a hollow ache in my chest and the certainty that something terrible had been chasing me through my dreams.
“Another bad night?” Adrian asked on the third morning, his voice gentle with concern as he found me staring blankly at my untouched breakfast.
“I can’t remember what I dreamed about,” I said, rubbing my temples where a dull headache had taken residence. “But I keep waking up feeling like I’ve lost something important.”
“Stress,” Adrian diagnosed with certainty. “The dinner party, the interview, all the social obligations—it’s natural for your subconscious to process the pressure through dreams.”
Natural. So why did it feel like my mind was trying to tell me something my conscious thoughts couldn’t access?
“Perhaps you should see Dr. Hayes,” Adrian suggested, his hand warm on my shoulder. “He might have something to help with the sleep disturbances.”
Dr. Hayes arrived that afternoon with his familiar medical bag and kind, professional demeanor. But as he took my pulse and asked questions about my symptoms, I noticed something different in his expression—a subtle tension that hadn’t been there before.
“How have you been feeling overall?” he asked, wrapping the blood pressure cuff around my arm. “Energy levels, mood, general sense of wellbeing?”
“Good,” I said automatically, then paused. “Actually, I’m not sure. Everything feels… muffled lately. Like I’m experiencing my own life through gauze.”
The pressure cuff tightened and released, and Dr. Hayes frowned at the reading.
“Are you remembering to take your vitamins consistently?” he asked, making notes in his chart.
“Vitamins?” I hadn’t realized I was supposed to be taking anything beyond what he gave me during his visits.
“The supplements I prescribed after your last examination.” His pen paused over the paper. “To support your overall health during this adjustment period.”
Adjustment period. The phrase stirred that familiar unease, the sense that everyone around me was speaking in code I couldn’t decipher.
“I don’t remember any supplements,” I said carefully. “Are they important?”
“Very important for maintaining your stability,” Dr. Hayes said, his voice taking on that clinical tone that always made me feel like a problem to be solved. “But don’t worry. We can adjust your treatment protocol to compensate.”
He prepared the injection with his usual efficiency, but I caught him glancing toward the door twice, as if expecting interruption.
“Dr. Hayes,” I said as he approached with the syringe, “the nightmares I’ve been having—could they be related to my treatment?”
“Nightmares are often a sign that the mind is processing unresolved issues,” he said carefully. “This injection should help quiet those disturbances and restore your natural sleep patterns.”
Natural sleep patterns. But what felt natural anymore? The peaceful, dreamless nights I’d been having, or these recent episodes of terror that left me gasping and confused?
The injection stung more than usual, and almost immediately I felt that familiar loosening in my limbs, the soft edges creeping into my thoughts.
“Better?” Dr. Hayes asked, packing up his supplies with what seemed like unusual haste.
“Yes,” I murmured, though part of me wanted to protest, wanted to hold onto the sharp questions that had been forming in my mind. But they were already fading, replaced by the gentle contentment that made everything seem manageable and right.
“I’ll see you next week,” Dr. Hayes said, already moving toward the door. “And Mrs. Thorne? If the nightmares return, don’t try to remember them. Sometimes our minds protect us from things we’re not ready to process.”
After he left, I settled into the window seat with a book, feeling the familiar peace settle over me like a warm blanket. Whatever had been troubling me before his visit seemed distant and unimportant now.
I was deep in a pleasant fog of contentment when shouting from the front of the house shattered the afternoon quiet.
“—told you he was mine first!” A woman’s voice, sharp with anger and something that sounded like desperation. “Before that little nobody came along and bewitched him!”
More voices now—Thomas trying to maintain order, household staff attempting to restore calm. But underneath it all, that original voice continued its tirade with increasing volume and venom.
I should have been alarmed. Should have rushed to see what was causing such disruption in our normally peaceful home. Instead, I found myself moving slowly, as if through water, the medication making everything feel distant and dreamlike.
By the time I reached the foyer, the scene had devolved into barely controlled chaos. A woman stood in the center of it all—tall, blonde, expensively dressed but with the kind of manic energy that made her elegance look brittle and dangerous.
She was beautiful in the way that money and good breeding could create, but there was something wild in her eyes that suggested the polished surface was cracking.
“And you must be the replacement,” she said when she spotted me, her voice dripping with disdain. “The little mouse Adrian found to play house with.”
“I’m sorry,” I said carefully, my medicated calm making it difficult to feel properly offended by her obvious hostility. “I think there’s been some misunderstanding. This is a private residence.”
The woman laughed, the sound sharp enough to cut glass. “Oh, there’s been a misunderstanding, all right. But not the kind you think.”
“Ma’am,” Thomas interjected firmly, “I’m going to have to ask you to leave. You’re trespassing on private property.”
“Trespassing?” The blonde’s voice rose to near-hysteria. “I’ve been coming to this house for three years! I know every room, every secret, every lie Adrian Thorne has ever told!”
Three years. Something about that timeframe felt significant, but through the pharmaceutical haze, I couldn’t quite grasp why.
“Mrs. Thorne,” Thomas said quietly, “perhaps you should wait in the sitting room while we handle this situation.”
But before I could respond, the sound of rapid footsteps announced Adrian’s arrival. He appeared at the top of the staircase, his face a mask of cold fury that transformed his handsome features into something almost frightening.
“Sabrina,” he said, his voice carrying the kind of authority that could freeze blood. “What are you doing in my home?”
Sabrina. The name meant nothing to me, but the way she straightened at the sound of his voice suggested it meant everything to her.
“Adrian, darling,” she said, her tone shifting to something that might have been sultry if not for the underlying desperation. “I saw the interview. The two of you playing happy couple for the cameras. It was quite the performance.”
Adrian descended the stairs with predatory grace, his attention focused entirely on the intruder who had disrupted our peaceful afternoon.
“You need to leave,” he said quietly. “Now.”
“Not until we talk,” Sabrina replied, her chin lifting in defiance. “Not until you explain why you replaced me with this… creature.”
Creature. The insult should have stung, should have provoked some kind of emotional response. Instead, I found myself observing the scene with detached curiosity, as if watching a play performed by actors I didn’t recognize.
“Calla,” Adrian said without taking his eyes off Sabrina, “please go to the sitting room. I’ll handle this.”
“But—”
“Please.” There was steel beneath the courtesy, the kind of command I’d learned not to question.
As I retreated toward the sitting room, I heard Adrian’s voice drop to the dangerous whisper he used when his patience was completely exhausted.
“My study. Now. Before you embarrass yourself further.”
The last thing I saw before closing the sitting room door was Sabrina’s face—beautiful, desperate, and filled with the kind of raw pain that should have resonated with something deep inside me.
Instead, all I felt was the gentle, medicated certainty that Adrian would handle everything, just as he always did.
After all, that’s what husbands were for.
Even if I couldn’t quite shake the feeling that I was forgetting something important about what that word really meant.