Chapter 13 I Carry You
The air still carried a faint hint of chaos.
After the storm, Elizabeth lay in her hospital bed, the sedative finally pulling her into a deep, even sleep.
Timothy stepped into the bathroom to wash his hands. He glanced at his long, deft fingers and allowed himself a quiet, unreadable smile.
The sharp scent of antiseptic reached Elizabeth as her eyes fluttered open. Somewhere nearby, Timothy's voice murmured into a phone, low and gravelly.
When she turned her head, he was by the window, speaking in a tone cold enough to freeze bone. "Make sure he spends the rest of his life in prison."
On the other end, Matthew Sutter chuckled. "Timothy, you're actually angry over a woman? That's not like you.""Maybe I've lost my mind," Timothy replied lazily, a trace of reckless amusement in his voice. "One day I'll get a shrink to fix me."
"Fine. I'll book the session," Matthew said, sounding far too entertained.
Timothy seemed to sense her gaze. He turned, catching her wide, startled eyes. His lips curved faintly before he ended the call. "You're awake."
Elizabeth wished she wasn't.
Her thoughts were hazy, fragments of last night flashing in unwelcome detail. Timothy... he had helped her. Helped her in a way that made her cheeks flush. She pulled the blanket over her head.
'No. I'm not awake. Not for this,' she wondered.
Timothy arched a brow and walked to the bed. "What are you hiding from? Come out."
She stayed silent, willing herself to disappear.
The door opened and closed. Slowly, she lowered the blanket—only to find Timothy still beside the bed, that half-smile tugging at his mouth. "Dr. Robinson. What a coincidence."
She feigned ignorance, pretending last night had been erased. If she didn't speak of it, maybe he wouldn't know she remembered every detail.
Timothy set a thermos on the table, his gaze lingering. "Sit up. Drink some soup."
He hadn't stepped out for air—he'd gone to get chicken soup.
Elizabeth sat up, hair spilling over her shoulders, her face softer now but still striking. Her voice was hoarse. "Dr. Robinson, when did you start working here?"
He was still in his white coat. "Why aren't you keeping quiet anymore?" he drawled.
"I wasn't silent," she replied evenly, though her ears warmed.
He chuckled, and her stomach growled at that exact moment.
Most patients had someone to care for them. She had no one. The sight alone was pitiful.
Timothy opened the thermos, letting the rich aroma of broth fill the room. "Free-range chicken. Drink this first, then tell me what else you want."
He poured a steaming bowl and set it on the table.
She hadn't expected him to bring soup. They weren't close. "Thank you."
If he hadn't been there last night, she might have gone down with Michael into hell. Armando was ruthless.
Timothy's lips quirked. "This chicken cost a hundred dollars. Don't forget to transfer me the money."
Elizabeth nodded without hesitation. "Alright."
She moved to get out of bed, careful not to touch the bandaged hand, but her legs gave way almost instantly. Heat rushed to her face.
Timothy caught her before she could fall. "I'll carry you."
He knew she wanted to wash up. As he lifted her, she remembered the foolish thing she'd done last night—she'd bitten him.
"Thanks," she said, keeping her voice steady.
"Don't mention it. Just don't bite me again," he teased.
She stayed silent.
At the sink, he squeezed toothpaste onto her brush. "Go on. I'll hold you."
Her strength had returned slightly, but she was still weak. Michael's drug had been potent. Without fuss, she brushed her teeth.
Seeing her hair in disarray, Timothy picked up a comb and began to smooth it. He'd never imagined himself combing a woman's hair.
Elizabeth paused, then kept brushing. In the mirror, her face was still faintly swollen on one side from a blow. She looked worn down. Lately, she'd been hit too often.
She gave a small, resigned smile.
When she needed the bathroom, Timothy stepped out. From inside, she heard him tapping out a message to Matthew, who was still complaining about their abrupt call.
When she emerged, he was waiting outside. Her cheeks warmed.
Elizabeth sipped the soup in small mouthfuls. Timothy sat on the couch until she finished, then said, "Tomorrow, you'll have the procedure."
She dabbed at her lips. "Alright."
He was silent for a moment. "The drug you took last night contains compounds harmful to the fetus. I'm sorry."
She shook her head. "You saved me. There's nothing to apologize for. The baby... was never meant to stay."
"Did you save my number?" he asked, looking down at her. "Give me yours too."
She recited it, and he suggested, "Let's add each other on Facebook. If you need help, you can reach me."
"Alright."
She searched for her phone. Timothy opened the bedside cabinet and handed her a pink phone. "Thanks."
She pulled up her profile for him to scan. He glanced at her avatar—it was cute—and leaned closer. "Anytime you need something, call me."
The scent of antiseptic clung to his coat, but she didn't mind. She smiled. "Dr. Robinson, can I buy you dinner sometime?"
"Sure. I've got clinic work later. Send me a message if you think of anything else you want."
She nodded. "Thanks."
He checked his watch. "I'll find a nurse to stay with you."
"No need."
She wasn't that badly hurt. Seeing her color improve after the soup, he didn't press. He left for work.
Minutes later, his phone pinged—a Facebook notification. Elizabeth had transferred him a hundred dollars. He laughed quietly.
Elizabeth lowered her gaze to her phone. She replied to a friend abroad, then scrolled to Armando's contact and called.
He answered almost immediately.
"Where's Quinton? Can you tell me now?" she asked coldly.
Armando set down his coffee. "Elizabeth, how about we make another deal? Six months."
Her grip tightened on the phone. "I'm not making any more deals with you."
"You will," he said with quiet certainty. "I found a matching bone marrow donor."
Her voice caught. "What do you mean?"
"For Quinton," he said, his tone dropping further.
She thought for a moment, fingers clutching her hospital gown. "What's the deal?"
"First, you return to the Johnson Group as my secretary for six months. Second, you act as if we've reconciled in front of your grandmother."
Last night, Bronte had collapsed. The doctor had issued a critical notice. She'd been saved, but only had a few months left. That was why Elizabeth wasn't in Emerald Park—and why Bronte hadn't noticed.
Elizabeth raised her chin. "I'll agree, but we finalize the divorce first. We can keep it quiet afterward."
He was silent for a beat. "Fine."
Outside the half-open study door, Sherry stood with a plate of fruit. She'd arrived just in time to hear Armando invite Elizabeth back to the Johnson Group.
Her teeth pressed into her lip, her eyes dark with resentment and malice.