13. Natalie

13

NATALIE

D r Dyson’s examination is as efficient as it is thorough. He persuades me to take off my heels, and I relax into an armchair while he puts me on an IV drip with a cocktail of vitamins and electrolytes that he swears will help me recover my energy. He monitors my glucose levels, takes my blood pressure, my heart rate and my oxygen levels and draws some blood that he says will go straight to an overnight lab for testing.

He also replaces my CGM and examines my pump, just for good measure.

And while we wait for the IV bag to empty, he asks me endless probing questions about my medical history, the last time I had my eyes and kidneys checked, my diet, my day-to-day job and general stress levels, and the events leading up to today’s hypo.

‘I was really worked up,’ I confess. ‘I was stressed about the mee—a meeting I was having, and I just couldn’t get enough food down me. My stomach was in knots. I thought I’d have time after the meeting to eat my dinner. I miscalculated. ’

He frowns. ‘There are other ways to compensate if you’re going to miss a meal. They’re not ideal, but they’re better than what happened. Gummies, gels.’

I nod, chastened, because this is basic stuff, and I don’t need him to tell me I fucked up. Even if his disapproval is far easier to stomach than Adam’s.

When the bag is emptied, and I’m sporting a little round plaster on each arm from the drip and the blood tests, he leaves me to go find Adam. I slump back in the armchair and survey my surroundings. I’m beyond exhausted, and the idea of a long, wet journey home in four-inch heels on tubes and buses is the last thing I feel like, but it’ll be good to get home, and it’ll feel even better to get out of this dress and these holdups and into my pyjamas.

I just wish I hadn’t left my flats tucked under the lectern at Alchemy.

And I wish this armchair wasn’t quite so obscenely comfortable, or this fire so warming, or this room so indulgent. I allow myself another cube of ridiculously good herb-infused cheese from the platter the butler, Toby, brought in a few minutes into my checkup.

Dr Dyson returns with Adam a couple of minutes later, both men talking in low voices. As they come around to stand by the fire, I can’t help but gape.

Because clearly Adam has used his banishment as an opportunity to shower and change.

Holy shit.

He’s in grey jogging bottoms and a form-fitting white t-shirt under an unzipped navy hoodie bearing the Wright Holdings logo on the chest. His hair is damp, his curls raked sleekly off his face and his feet encased in moccasin-style slippers.

He’s fully dressed, of course—there’s almost no part of his body left uncovered save for his hands and neck—but it’s still… confronting. I’m well aware by now that the man wears the heck out of a custom-made suit, but the sight of casual Adam, dressed so informally in his own home, feels illicit, somehow. Wrong.

I glance down at my legs and hurriedly straighten up in my chair to hide the glimpse of lace I’m flashing. What’s appropriate for Alchemy is definitely not appropriate for here.

Before I can say anything, Dr Dyson chimes in smoothly. ‘Adam here was suggesting you stay the night, and I have to say I agree. I understand you live somewhere in north London?’

I push myself out of my chair and smooth down my dress. Excellent. He and his doctor are in cahoots to keep me trapped here. ‘Yes, but it’s fine. Staying here’s not an option. I’m going to make a move now. Thank you so much for… everything.’

Flustered, I bend to grab my tote bag, but Adam stops me with a hand on my arm. I jolt away.

‘Natalie,’ he says in a voice that brooks no argument. ‘Listen to me. I’m sure you’re anxious to get home, but it’s not a good idea. You’re very welcome here. I can feed you, and you can get some sleep, and then tomorrow morning I’ll get my nutritionist over to run through some ideas, too. I’ve already texted her.’

Oh, for the love of God. This is bloody ridiculous.

‘I have to work tomorrow morning,’ I tell him, trying to keep my tone positive. ‘And I’m really grateful for everything you’ve done this evening, honestly I am, but there’s no need for any of that. I’ll be absolutely fine.’

‘I’d feel far happier if you stayed,’ Dr Dyson says firmly. ‘The last thing you need right now is a long trek across London. Have some food, go take a long bath in one of Wright’s many tubs, get an early night, and his nutritionist can give you some advice in the morning. It sounds like you’re out and about a lot with your job. He or she can help you work out a plan for keeping your glucose levels stable when you’re on the go.’

I glare at him. This definitely feels like a conspiracy to imprison me here. And his suggestion of a bath—and a sound sleep—almost made me laugh. There’s no way I’d ever feel comfortable enough in Adam Wright’s house to get naked and bathe, let alone catch a wink of sleep.

I play my trump card. ‘I don’t have a change of clothes. I don’t even have a toothbrush! I can’t turn up at work tomorrow looking like this.’

‘There’s a load of stuff upstairs for you,’ Adam says evenly. ‘I’ve had some things biked over from Selfridges. Toiletries, nightwear, some stuff for tomorrow. It’s no big deal, but hopefully it’ll cover everything you need for one night. I really hope you’ll be able to make yourself at home.’

‘There, you see?’ Dr Dyson looks positively thrilled. ‘Now you can have a good night’s sleep before you go back to the real world.’

The unpalatable and very inconvenient truth is that I’m still completely wiped. Even after the drip, I feel like Bambi as I stand here. The mere thought of going outside and trying to flag down a cab in this weather feels like a herculean task, dammit. Adam clearly sees the moment I yield, because he smiles at me. It’s more of a smirk, and it reeks of victory, and it makes him look even more slappable than usual.

Now I do laugh, because this is ridiculous. Generous, yes, of course. But also more than a little psychotic. Adam Wright has basically kidnapped me, and the good doctor on his payroll is enabling him.

But Dr Dyson has one thing right.

I do indeed feel like I left the real world behind me when I stepped over this threshold. And not in a good way.

‘Pyjamas.’ Adam coughs. ‘There are robes in the bathroom, but I didn’t have any women’s nightwear. Obviously.’

He points to the massive yellow Selfridges bag sitting on the huge bed in the centre of this astonishingly chic guest suite. ‘There should be underwear in the bag. I haven’t touched any of it, of course—my assistant put the order through and one of the maids unpacked. Let me see—leggings, etcetera. I think she got you some athleisure wear, basically. Trainers. The toiletries should all be in the bathroom. Shout if there’s anything else you need. Shall we say dinner in half an hour? I’ve asked the chef to keep it light and simple—we can just eat in the kitchen. I’ll get someone to run you a bath once we’ve eaten.’

Once I’ve got rid of him and closed the door firmly behind me before checking if it locks—it doesn’t—I lean against it and exhale.

This is insane.

Insane.

I’m stuck in the most achingly beautiful, palatial home I’ve ever seen with the human being who’s caused my family no end of pain and destruction. Oh, and with his fleet of staff, of course. And he’s bought me half of Selfridges, a gesture I shouldn’t accept but probably will, because pyjamas sound really fucking good right now.

Not to mention, this room is utterly perfect. If I’m not mistaken, the pale green wallpaper adorned with pale pink cherry blossoms is De Gournay, which means that every blossom is hand-painted and that each panel cost a couple of grand. The pink of the roman blinds matches the cherry blossom exactly, and the bed is a huge, white thing of wonder that looks like a marshmallow and probably feels like one.

I may be pissed off as hell to find myself here, with him, but that bed has a siren’s call, and it’s loud .

I push myself off the door and wander over to the pile of clothes resting on it. The tags have been cut off everything—probably his way of ensuring I couldn’t insist on any of it being sent back. But those delectable silk satin pyjamas in black and white toile de Jouy with black piping are Olivia von Halle pyjamas.

They’re five hundred quid minimum. I’ve ogled them through the window of her bijou Chelsea boutique before.

The casual wear is all Varley and Skims. It’s gorgeous, obviously.

And it’s all my size.

I risk a look in the bag. More Skims. Nude panties and a nude sports bra, both lace-trimmed but tasteful rather than porno.

Fuuuuuuck.

I sigh in defeat as I reach behind my neck for the top of my zip.