Once, my paranoid love

“Alright, sir,” Obin responded with a respectful bow of his head, acknowledging my directive.

I leaned forward in my chair, my attention fully focused on the matter at hand. “And postpone the meeting,” I continued, my voice carrying a sense of urgency. “I’m going to meet Lucy. She unexpectedly returned.”

Obin nodded, his demeanor was professional and efficient. “Yes, sir,” he replied, his readiness to carry out my instructions evident.

Meeting Lucy had suddenly become a matter of utmost importance to me.

**

Anne sat anxiously in the sterile hospital waiting room, her hands tightly clasped in her lap as she silently prayed. The harsh fluorescent lights overhead seemed to amplify the heaviness in her heart.

“Please, God, don’t,” Anne whispered under her breath, her voice trembling with desperation. “Save him, please.” She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, her thoughts consumed by fear and worry. “Elena will not spare Paul if anything really bad happens to Robert. She’ll hand him over to the cops.”

As Anne continued to pray, her mind raced with thoughts of her son, Paul. He was her only child, and the thought of him facing legal consequences for his actions filled her with dread. She had always been fiercely protective of him, and the idea of him being taken away by the authorities was unbearable.

“No way, I’m not letting her do that because he’s my only son,” Anne vowed to herself, her determination unwavering.

An hour passed, each minute feeling like an eternity as Anne anxiously waited for news of her husband’s condition. She paced back and forth in the small waiting room, her worry intensifying with every passing second.Property © NôvelDrama.Org.

Finally, the door leading to the hospital room swung open, and the doctor emerged. Anne’s heart leaped into her throat as she rushed over to him, her eyes wide with anticipation.

“Doctor, how is Robert doing?” Anne’s voice was filled with a mix of hope and fear. “Is he all right?”

The doctor, a middle-aged man with a calm and reassuring demeanor, met Anne’s gaze with a sympathetic expression. He took a deep breath before speaking, choosing his words carefully.

“We tried our hardest, Mrs. D’souza,” the doctor sighed, his weariness evident. “But he is in a coma.”

“So he’s still alive?” Anne asked anxiously, searching for a glimmer of hope in the doctor’s response.

The doctor nodded, his expression compassionate. “He is, indeed, alive.”

Relief washed over Anne, but it was tinged with a sense of urgency. She needed to be cautious with the information she shared with the doctor. Her son Paul’s involvement in the recent violent incident weighed heavily on her mind.

“What’s the matter with him?” the doctor inquired, his concern palpable.

Anne took a deep breath, her mind racing as she carefully crafted her response. She knew that the truth could have serious consequences for her family, so she decided to withhold certain details.

“Actually, he slipped and tumbled down the stairs,” Anne replied, her voice steady but tinged with unease. She cleared her throat, hoping her lie would go unquestioned. Revealing the true cause of her husband’s injuries could lead to complications she wasn’t ready to face.

The doctor studied her for a moment, his brow furrowed with a hint of skepticism. However, he ultimately accepted her explanation and nodded in understanding.

“I see,” he said, choosing not to press further. “Accidents can happen unexpectedly.”

Anne nodded in agreement, her relief mingling with a sense of guilt for not being entirely truthful with the doctor. She knew that protecting her family came at a cost, but she was willing to do whatever it took to shield Paul from the consequences of his actions.

“Can I see him?” Anne asked, her eyes filling with tears.

The doctor nodded, offering a reassuring smile. “Yes, of course. He’s in Room 203. You can go in and spend some time with him. We’ll keep you updated on his progress.”

The doctor’s reassurance brought a glimmer of hope to Anne’s heart, dispelling some of the darkness that had settled there. She watched as the doctor left the room, his words echoing in her mind.

“That was a really deep injury, Mrs. D’Souza,” he had said, his tone filled with empathy. “Don’t be worried, though. We’ll do everything we can to help him. I think he will recover quickly.”

Anne’s smile, though tinged with relief, held a secret. She knew that her husband, Robert, was in good hands, and that was a weight off her shoulders. But there was another matter that required her immediate attention.

“He’s all right. Thank you, God,” Anne thought, her silent gratitude directed upward. She had feared the worst, and knowing that Robert had a chance at recovery filled her with hope.

But her sense of urgency remained, for she had another work to accomplish-one that was shrouded in secrecy. Anne’s mind turned to a man who had been her confidant and partner in clandestine activities for years.

“I am not willing to take any risks,” Anne thought, her determination unwavering. She knew that time was of the essence, and her contact with this man was crucial.

As she sat in the hospital room, Anne pulled out her phone and sent a discreet message to him. The words were carefully chosen, coded messages that only he would understand.

“We need to meet. Urgent.”

**

As I sat in the room, lost in thought in a magazine, a young girl entered, carrying a glass of juice. Her presence was unexpected, and I watched her curiously as she approached.

“Ma’am, your juice,” she said politely, extending the glass toward me.

I accepted the glass with a nod of gratitude. “Thank you,” I replied, my voice warm and appreciative.

The girl lingered for a moment, and I couldn’t help but be intrigued by her. Her presence in the house was a mystery to me, and I decided to engage in conversation to learn more.

“You stay here?” I inquired, and curiosity piqued.

The girl nodded, her demeanor polite and respectful. “Yes, ma’am, but the boss comes on occasion.”

“Boss?” I asked, puzzled by her choice of words.

She clarified with a smile, “I’m talking about your husband, ma’am.”

I took a sip of the juice, processing her response. “Oh,” was all I could manage in the moment, not entirely sure what to make of her reference to my husband as the “boss.”

The girl, seemingly eager to engage in conversation, didn’t let the moment pass. “Ma’am!” she called out to me, seeking my attention.

I turned to her, my curiosity getting the better of me. “Yes?”

Her question took me by surprise. “How did you guys meet?”

I couldn’t help but laugh at the unexpected query. “We haven’t met yet,” I replied with a chuckle, wondering if there was a language barrier or if her question was simply lighthearted banter.

“What?” she asked, her surprise evident.

I stared out of the window, my gaze fixed on the serene waterfront beyond. The shimmering reflections on the water held a tranquility that provided a brief respite from the complexities of my life.

“Yes, we haven’t met,” I replied, my voice soft and contemplative. The words were a simple acknowledgment of the truth, but they carried a weight of unspoken emotions.

The girl, ever empathetic, attempted to console me. “Oh, don’t be sad, ma’am,” she said gently. “I know every girl has dreams of her marriage.”

I turned to look at her, surprised by her assumption. Sadness was not an emotion I often allowed myself to dwell on. Perhaps other girls had dreamed of their weddings, but my own journey had taken unexpected turns, and I had learned to adapt and find strength in the face of adversity.

I smiled at her, appreciating her concern but wanting to set the record straight. “Who told you I was sad? I am not sad,” I replied, my voice lighthearted despite the weight of my words.

The truth was, I had made choices in life that had led me down a path divergent from the one I had once envisioned. My dreams and aspirations had evolved, reshaped by circumstances and the people who had come into my life. I used to have the same dream, but with a different person. But he, on the other hand, forgot everything and changed himself.

“But, ma’am, our boss is quite attractive,” she reiterated, her tone earnest. “You don’t have to be concerned; when you meet him, you’ll see for yourself that I’m not lying.”

I couldn’t help but smile at her enthusiasm and her insistence on this particular aspect of my husband’s character. It was an unexpected topic of conversation, but I appreciated her attempt to lighten the mood.

Despite my smile, I chose to remain silent, my thoughts drifting to the complexities of my marriage. Attractiveness, I knew, was only one facet of a person, and our connection was built on far more intricate layers of history, circumstance, and hate.