"Your wife is fine, Mr Barlowe." The Doctor said clearly without an ounce of doubt in his voice.
Callan was relieved. He didn't want to think about what would have happened if he had arrived home later than when he did.
"What happened to her?" Callan asked the Doctor.
"Fatigue, an extreme case of fatigue." The Doctor adjusted his glasses so that they sat at the bridge of his crooked nose. "What has she been up to that got her so exhausted?"
Callan sighed. It was fine that it was just fatigue. Maybe not just, but it was something curable.
He guiltily stared at the Doctor and shook his head painfully. "Nothing, she's not been doing a lot. Except that, she's been brooding over her dead cat."
"Her dead cat?"
"That used to be her best friend," Callan interjected, massaging his fingers against his chin. He was stressed and it was just a matter of time before he collapsed just as Orla did.
"Oh, I see. She's grieving. It hurts when you lose a best friend. But it shouldn't get to this point," the Doctor shot Callan a sceptical glance. "I mean she's your wife, what have you done or have you been doing to help her get out of that state?"
"I got her a new cat, but she rejected it."
"And what else did you do?" He further asked but Callan stilled for a brief moment. There was nothing he did after Orla rejected the new cat he got her.
"What else was I supposed to do?" He knew that wasn't right, but he was frustrated. He was guilty and everyone has been pointing that out to him since the day began. First, it was Rosa and now the Doctor. "What else was I supposed to do?" He was new to all these.
No one told him getting married would mean he had to be responsible for someone else. He loathed marriage, but it happened when he couldn't deter it and now everyone was blaming him for his actions.
"Care for her, soothe her. Make sure she eats, she hasn't eaten for a while, an added factor to the fatigue. Have you been so busy you have little to no time for your wife?" The Doctor asked him, eyes not leaving Callan.
Callan looked so confused and unhappy, but he didn't know what was going on and he wished he could help but he knew not what was happening in his home and he was just a Doctor, not a marriage counselor.
"Can I see my wife?" He demanded.
"Sure, she woke up about an hour again. She has gotten enough rest and the Nurses have fed her, you can see her now." He responded, smiling. He scribbled down a note and passed it across to Callan. "I don't know what's happening in your home, but I do know that you have a beautiful wife and taking care of her should be of utmost interest to you, Mr Barlowe."
"Doctor, can I see her now?" Callan asked again, ignoring the Doctor's small talk.
"Sure, let's go." He led the way out of his office to the room Orla was admitted in. "Call on me if you need something, I will leave you here." The Doctor patted Callan's shoulder and turned to the other path of the hallway, other patients needed him as well.
Callan walked gently, his feet barely touched the floor as he stepped in. He glimpsed Orla leaning next to the window, eyes fixed on the dim moon. She was so engrossed with watching the moon she didn't know that he was close, so close to her until she turned to grasp a bottle of water from the table and then, she saw him; tall and graceful, his beautiful eyes boring into hers.
Her hand froze on the lid of the bottle, eyes never leaving Callan. His eyes were weary and he looked drained like he'd been running around.
She wanted to ask if he was fine, but held back. She grabbed the bottle, aggressively turned the lid and downed the content at a go.
Callan stepped closer, taking in her full slender frame as he walked. When he was in front of her, he stopped and asked. "Orla, how are you?"
She froze.
She didn't expect him to ask that. He hated her, didn't care about her and what was that? She turned her back to him, tears brimming at the corner of her eyes. She didn't want him to see her like that.
"Hm, the Doctor confirmed that you are fine." He said, but there was no response, then he rambled on. "He said you were stressed out, you are weak because you've been grieving about Betty. He said that you are now well and that you have eaten some food, but is there something else that you'd like me to get you, Orla?"
She said nothing. Her silence stung him and it was evident in his bloodshot eyes.
"I want you to go away, Callan. Leave me alone, it's safer here than it is at your place. Just leave me alone." She craved his touch and his presence filled her, but she had to act tough.
He had broken her and now, she didn't want to trust that he was being nice because he cared about her.
"The Doctor said I should take care of you." He said, moving closer, leaving no distance between them. His heart was troubled when he saw Orla's lifeless body when he got home that afternoon, but staring at her pale face now gladdened his heart.
He had never been moved because of a woman, he had never been so scared of losing someone the way he was scared of not seeing Orla again after what happened today.
"And I am saying that I do not need you to do that!" She left the window side, away from Callan. She thrashed the bottle into the dustbin and flopped on the bed. "I am fine, you can see that I am good. You can leave now." She looked away from him, refusing to yield to the part of her that wanted him to stay.
Watching him go was torture for her. As toxic as he was to her, she always craved his presence.
"Orla," he dubbed softly.
Slow girl was better, she didn't feel a burst in her chest whenever he called her slow girl. But a million butterflies threw a feast in her stomach whenever he called her name. She wished he didn't call her that way—firm, sweet and sensual.
"What do you want me to do for you to—"
"I answered you before!" She chirped in, cutting him off.
"For you to stop pushing me away," he added, looking down at her. He had never been at the mercy of a woman, but this ginger-haired woman was doing the most to him and he couldn't resist her.
"You've never wanted me to be near," Orla said calmly.
"That was then, Orla. What If I want you to be near? Closer than you've ever been? What do I need to do?" He stood right in front of her, eyes on her.
She looked at him like a young man and not the powerful billionaire that he carried himself as.
He was vulnerable, his eyes held pleas that she could read meanings to. He seemed sincere, she could read the sincerity in his soft gaze, he felt so different, different from the great Callan Barlowe that she was used to.
Then she broke down, "Why would you want me to be closer to you, Callan?" She asked, tears running down her cheeks.
Callan hurried to get to her, he took her hands in his and wiped tears off her tears with his thumb. "Because," he looked down at their intertwined fingers. They seemed so perfect, he had never been more whole. "I am sorry for everything that I have done to you, Orla." He did the one thing he had never done to anyone.
He had never been sorry for his actions, he had never thought he was sorry for anything in this world, but right there, he knew he was sorry, deeply sorry for hurting her.
He desperately needed her forgiveness. Orla's knees grew weak. She clutched his hand tighter and looked at him.
"Callan," she called, bursting into fresh tears. There were so many words she wanted to say but the tears didn't let her.
He hugged her tighter, letting her cry in his arms. "I am sorry, Orla." He whispered into her ears as she cried out her hurts. "For the times I left you when you needed someone, for the days I treated you like a nobody, for the days I didn't care about you. For the things that I have done to hurt you, the ones that I know of and the ones that I do not know of. I am sorry, Orla."
As Orla savoured the warmth his arms produced, the tears poured harder, heavier. She was beyond hurt.
She was wounded, she was sad. And it was so surprising that saying sorry to her was all she needed all this while. His apology renewed her broken soul, healed her deepest wound from the inside. She wished he was real, she wished he wouldn't change, and she wished Callan would remain that way forever—calm, collected and caring. Like a real man.
"Now, I want food," Orla said when she finally let go of him. She hadn't smiled for days, but at that moment, she smiled dryly. "If you want me to believe that you are truly sorry, you'd cook for me."
"Cook for you here?" He asked, surprised. He had never cooked.
"The Doctor said I am fine and I can now go home."
"Now, you want to come back home?" He smirked and she nodded.
"To test your cooking prowess." She snickered.
Callan laughed loudly. Orla looked at him, he was handsome and glorious. But uncertainty shot through her, a small voice whispering to her that his apology was ephemeral, that she should never forgive him.
And no matter how hard she tried to shut the voice, it grew louder, warning her against a looming danger.
"I should get the Doctor to discharge you." Callan smiled, taking her hand in his.
"You should," she managed a small smile, her inner voice still taunting her.
Guys, I need your comment, comments about this book.
What you think about it, please.
Do you think that Orla was too quick to forgive Callan? Well, she hasn't said the word and more dramas are still coming up.
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Thanks for always reading.