CHAPTER 120
Laura
They say recovery is about patience. But no one ever warned me that patience can feel like torture.
I spent the first few days in bed, my body half–numb and my head full of strange sounds: doctors‘ instructions, the beeping of monitors, and my own heartbeat that always felt too fast. My new leg–or someone else’s leg that now belonged to me–was wrapped in layers of sterile bandages, like a secret I wasn’t allowed to touch yet.
Every morning began with physical therapy. Two unnervingly calm nurses would drag my body out of bed, transfer me into a wheelchair, and take me to a room too bright for comfort. Then came the sounds: clicks from the equipment, the ticking of the wall clock, and the sharp voice of my trainer, Dariusz.
“Straighten your knee. Breathe. Focus, Laura.”}
Every movement was a small battle. My muscles rebelled, my knee screamed, and my mind was fogged by the fear of failure. But mare than all of it, there was one thought that disturbed me more than the pain:
I didn’t know who I was anymore.”
I used to be a wife. A mother–even if those children weren’t mine by blood, they once called me Mama, even if only for a while.
Now? I was a medical project. A successful experiment. A woman who lived because the man who once terrified her had now become the only reason she could stand again.”
Xavier was never far. He never interfered with my therapy, but he was always waiting outside. When I returned to the room, drenched in sweat and aching from hip to heel, he was always standing. Silent. Steady. His eyes were dark, as if trying to read something on my face even though I didn’t understand.
One night, after a training session that left me vomiting from exhaustion, I found him on the balcony, smoking alone. The glow of his cigarette flickered at his fingertips, the only thing that moved on a body too still.”
“I don’t like you smoking,” I said, surprising even myself.”
Xavier turned his head. Then stubbed out the cigarette without protest, tossing it into a dead plant pot.
“Better?” he asked.}
I nodded. Then sat down in the chair beside him. Silence drifted between us.
“I don’t know how to feel about you,” I said finally. “Sometimes you’re like… a savior. Other times, I still see my captor.””
Xavier didn’t look at me. “Maybe I’m both.”
“Then why are you doing all this? You could’ve let me die. Or… turned me in.“}]
“I will never hand you over to anyone, Laura.” His voice was calm, but the tone sent chills across my skin. Not out of fear–but because it sounded too certain. Too sure. As if I belonged to him and would never truly be free.
I turned my face away, staring at the gray Krakow sky. The clouds hung low, as if even the world above hadn’t yet decided what would become of me.
–8
Day 23, I stood.
Stood. Without assistance.
It was only five seconds, but five seconds that made all the pain worth it. Dariusz even clapped, and I nearly cried. Not out of pride–but because for the first time since that day by the river, I felt like I had my body back.
And when I returned to the room, Xavier looked at me as if I were the center of the universe.}
“I stood,” I said, my voice shaking. “Without anyone.“}}]
He just looked at me. Then walked forward slowly, and–without saying a single word–knelt in front of my wheelchair. His large hands held my new leg. Slowly, with complete awareness, he touched the bandages still wrapped around it, as if saying thank you to the leg that hadn’t been mine since birth–but was now the reason I could walk away from him. Or toward him.”
I didn’t know.
All I knew was that night, I dreamed of something I hadn’t felt in a long time: freedom:
But I wasn’t sure if that freedom would lead me back to my old life, or… draw me deeper into Xavier’s world.”
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