Chapter 2 

THE HOSPITAL HALLS were empty of people other than a stray nurse or janitor. I could see why. It was such a dreary place to be on Thanksgiving.

The staff led us to the private VIP room on the top floor. Dr. Alexeev sighed again, with more disdain this time, as some doctors appeared and explained to us that Maxwell had suffered a broken leg, a bruised rib, and head trauma. They also presented us with a leather satchel with what looked to be business papers. The doctors said they were handing it to Dr. Alexeev because they weren't sure if Maxwell would be trusted to do any office work while he was still recovering from surgery.

The doctors solemnly told Dr. Alexeev that Mr. Weston would not be well enough to make any business decisions for at least a couple of weeks. When Maxwell first woke up, he didn't even know his own name. Now, at least, he was starting to understand that he was in a hospital and not a penthouse suite at the Pierre Hotel.

Dr. Alexeev waved the doctor's concerns away. "That boy's skull is so thick no amount of drugs or street races can kill him," she laughed to herself. The doctors didn't appear to think she was very funny. "Maybe run a syphilis panel on him. I heard that can also cause mental issues."

I laughed politely along with her. The doctors didn't. They exchanged glances with each other as though they were wondering if they had called the right legal guardian. Though, a quick glance at Maxwell's medical records told me he was 26 years old. No one should require legal guardianship at that age.

His mental age, well, that was another issue. I was only 24, but I felt decades older than the immature brat.

Who flips a Porsche while street racing on this side of the world? I thought only rich kids in Singapore did stuff like that.

Dr. Alexeev and I entered Maxwell's room to find Maxwell with his right leg in a cast. He was sitting up with a hospital blanket wrapped around his shoulders like a hobo. From Dr. Alexeev's jokes, I envisioned a sour-faced fatty with a shifty, villainous stare — the kind men acquired when they slept around too much. I bet a boy like Maxwell woke up puking on the men's room of seedy bars more times than I could count. He probably has a permanent imprint of the checkered tile of the Soho House bathroom on his forehead. 

I was wrong. Maxwell Weston was extremely good-looking. He was gorgeous even with all the bruises and nicks on his face and hands. His sandy blond hair and was wet with either sweat or rain. His eyes weren't those of a vapid playboy. He looked very sharp despite being drop-dead handsome. I suddenly understood why Dr. Alexeev treated him with such disdain.

He was the kind of boy that made women want to either love him or hate him. If his father looked anything like that, I could see why Dr. Alexeev celebrated Christmas every year with a toast to the maker of the plane that sent her ex-husband into a burning grave.

I didn't even like men (or women for that matter), and I couldn't take my eyes off the boy.

Maxwell Weston was the pinnacle of alluring male toxicity. His brow ridge was fierce and sharp; his jawline looked to be chiseled out of marble. There was an annoyed yet intoxicating look to his pure blue eyes, as though one wanted to believe that was some good in him despite everything one knew about him.

There was only confusion in his blue eyes as he stared at us.

"It's me, Ramona," Dr, Alexeev said with a biting edge to her tone. He didn't even look up at her as she spoke to him. I imagined that this was the way they spoke to each other in their family. "They called me out of my Thanksgiving dinner party because you were stupid enough to crash your Porsche. Do you want to end up like your parents, Maxwell?"

Okay...so we were wasting no time on pleasantries. I suddenly understood why Dr. Alexeev was so lonely. She talked to her own family like they were less intelligent than the gorillas we studied.

"Ramona, why did they call you?" Maxwell spat. His eyes drifted to me. "Liliane?"

Oh my, he was confused.

Liliane was the name of Dr. Alexeev's daughter. Although I had practically been attached at the hip to my Ph.D. mentor for the past two years, I had never met Dr. Alexeev's daughter. Dr. Alexeev spoke of Liliane fondly, but the girl never could find the time to come to see her mother. If Maxwell thought I was Liliane, he must really be out of his mind. From Dr. Alexeev's photos, I knew that Liliane and I were around the same height and body type, but we looked nothing alike!

Other than the fact that she didn't have reddish-black hair, Liliane always had the most gorgeous Caribbean sun-kissed tan. I'm just a pasty, slouchy graduate student with the semi-permanent indentation of glasses on my nose bridge.

"That's not Liliane," Dr. Alexeev snapped. Her voice was like the crack of a whip. She stormed into the room and showed the bag of personal effects to Maxwell. She opened the leather satchel and dumped the contents onto the floor. I suddenly understood why she was so mad. The paper in the bag was a contract. It was a contract to sign over Weston industries to the control of Ziffer Corp. In return, Maxwell was supposed to get a payout of twenty million dollars.

I was no expert on the valuation of Weston Industries. Still, considering how many hospitals they supplied and probably owned, I guessed the true value of that company was perhaps in the billions. Twenty million would barely buy a three-bedroom penthouse apartment in the right part of manhattan.

"Are you crazy?" Dr. Alexeev asked.

"It's not your company, Ramona," Maxwell retorted from under his blanket fort. He gingerly shifted his weight, trying not to pull his broken leg out from its harness. The cast looked heavy, and he clearly wasn't used to being attached to it. "Father left it to me."

"You can't sell the Weston legacy for twenty million, you stupid boy," Dr. Alexeev snapped. "I helped build that company. What did you do?"

"I was born to a woman my father loved," Maxwell yelled back. "He never loved you. Shut up, old hag, and go back to your classrooms."

Dr. Alexeev was furious now. I had never seen her lose control. This was a woman who stood up before rooms full of white-haired professors and demand to be treated as an equal. She was a legendary scientist, a role that she carved out with the strength of her icy determination. She was difficult, but she wasn't emotional.

This dumb kid had pushed her over the edge.

"I may be old and poor, but I'm the only family you have left. Next time you go crack your skull open, finish the job so that I can enjoy my thanksgiving dinner."

"The only one I have left?" Maxwell yelled and pounded his fist on the flimsy hospital table. An ice bucket went flying across the floor. "Liliane! I still have you, don't I?"

"I'm not Liliane," I finally said, as his desperate eyes searched mine for some semblance of recognition.

"Then, who are you? Why are you here?" Maxwell asked. Then he laughed. "Why do you care if I sell my father's company for pennies?"

"She's your wife!" Dr. Alexeev blurted out. Dr. Alexeev seized my hand and gave it a tight, uncomfortable squeeze. I knew that what meant. As crazy as this was, she wanted me to go along with it. Oh, dear, being ordered to lie to a man with brain trauma? I was sure this went against the University Code of Conduct.

"My wife?" Maxwell asked.

"Yes, you don't even remember your own wife. For the love of God, Maxwell, look at yourself!"

"I'm sorry," Maxwell said in my general direction. "I had a nasty bump to my head. I-I don't even remember your name."

"Scarlett!" Dr. Alexeev finished for him before I could open my mouth. "You don't deserve her, you little brat."

"Scarlett," Maxwell said, as though he was tasting the words on his tongue. Although he didn't smile, his eyes softened as he studied me. "I'm so sorry for what happened. I really don't remember why I went out with Bobby today. Were you waiting for me to come home?"

"It's okay," I whispered, politely. Dr. Alexeev nodded at me, her eyes full of threats that I better go along before she canceled me, aka threw me out of her program. I glared back, trying to insinuate that she better give me a dozen publications for what I was doing for her. Maxwell raised one of his large, bruised hands to me. He trembled with emotion as he continued to stare into my eyes.

I went to him and took his hand. It was warm, calloused, dry. It was large enough that it enveloped my slender fingers.

"You don't have to say anything, Scarlett," Maxwell said. "You don't have to forgive me, but please, don't leave me. I have no one else in the world except this hag here."

"I won't leave," I promised. "And don't call me Scarlett. My name is Scar."