The Reluctant Heiress: A Novella(23)

Sebastian’s body looms before me, the edges of him wavering. “Candace? Candace!”

“Bast,” I croak, reaching for him.

I hear his voice from far away: “Call 911, now!”

Then nothing.



The staff of UCLA Medical Center in Santa Monica is nice. Soooo nice that they insist I stay hours longer than I need to for observation. I’m cynical enough to think it has more to do with my father being a benefactor than any concern for my health.

Picking at the IV taped to my hand, I tell Sebastian for the tenth time to leave.

“I’m not leaving,” he snaps.

Behind him, the door to my private room—thanks, Dad—opens. Vera enters with a cup of orange juice. She sits carefully on the edge of the bed and hands it to me, angling the straw toward my mouth.

At my annoyed expression, she sighs. “You can’t have any coffee, Candace. Doctor’s orders.”

Ignoring the orange juice, I flop back on the bed. My eyes veer to Sebastian, who’s sitting in a padded chair near the window, sunlight haloing his dark hair. I do my best puppy impression and his brows lift, lips twitching.

“Cute, but no.”

“But I’m dying for coffee!”

He gives in and smiles. “You are the worst patient I’ve ever seen. Since you woke up in the ambulance until now, you’ve been an absolute terror to all the people trying to help you.”

Shame wiggles through me and I stuff it down. “I had a little… episode. There’s been a lot going on. I’m overwhelmed. Blah blah. I have shit to do!”

Sitting forward, he says softly, “You had a severe panic attack. Your blood pressure was through the roof, you were shaking uncontrollably, and you passed out. Tell me how that translates to a little anything.” When I just stare blankly at him, he adds, “Has that ever happened before?”

“No,” I say quickly. Too quickly. His eyes narrow. “Look, Bast, I get that you have a big brother complex with me, but seriously, just go. It’s bad enough that you called Alex and he’s driving up here.”

“Candace,” hisses Vera, “you’re being rude.”

“Rude?” I echo loudly, and point at Sebastian. “Maybe if he’d respected my boundaries, backed off when I asked him to, and left me alone, I wouldn’t have had a fucking panic attack!”

The door swishes open and a nurse rushes into the room, beelining for my monitors. “Ms. Hughes, are you all right? Your heart rate is elevated.” She tries to feel my forehead with her wrist and I bat her arm away.

“Get off me!” I snarl, lurching to the side.

Vera scrambles out of the way; I ignore her shocked expression, all of my rage condensing in a molten haze on the man now standing before the windows.

“Get out!” I scream at him. “Get away from me! I don’t need you, Sebastian. I don’t want you! Leave—Me—Alone!”

Two more nurses, both male, run into the room. My arms are dragged ungently to my sides. I holler nonsensically at them, bucking and writhing on the bed, and don’t feel my IV rip out or see the blood spray across the white sheets.

Above me, the nurses fire medical-speak at each other. A syringe appears and I fight harder.

“No! Don’t you dare sedate me!”

But they don’t listen to my belligerent demands. They don’t know that deep inside me, on a level no medicine can reach, something fundamental is broken. Has been broken for years. And that the one person who might have been able to fix it is dead and gone.



When I open my eyes, the windows are dark. Soft light diffuses from above the bed, falling on the bowed head of my brother.

“Alex,” I whisper.

His head whips up, the anguish in his eyes transitioning to relief. “Thank God.”

He takes my cold hand between his warm ones, gaze restlessly scanning my face. Looking for wounds he can’t see. Can’t fix.

“Tell me what to do, Candace.”

I squeeze his fingers. “I’m okay,” I say, then snort. “That’s not actually true, is it?”

“No,” he says without humor. “I had to pull a lot of strings not to have you put on a seventy-two-hour psych hold.”

Grimacing, I let my head fall back. I lick my lips and swallow a few times, but my mouth still tastes like sandpaper.

“Can I have some water?”

Alex grabs a cup from a nearby tray and holds the straw to my mouth. I suck hard, groaning at the blessed coolness on my throat, until air crackles.

“Thank you,” I sigh, relaxing again.

“Candace, tell me what’s wrong. Please.”

I huff in silent humor. “Nothing. My boyfriend is cheating on me. Big whoop. There’s women who don’t have food for their children or a place to sleep. I have nothing to complain about.”

“Stop it,” he says, albeit gently. “You think you’re not allowed to have feelings, to be overwhelmed or stressed out because you have money? That’s bullshit.”

“Is it?” I grumble.

He’s silent for several long moments. “You’ve been running yourself ragged for years.” Another pause. “Is this about Mom?”

I answer honestly. “I don’t know.”