Chapter 3 : Present

My eyes flutter open, overstimulated by the bright room I’m in. The sound of beeping fills my ears, doing nothing to soothe the excruciating pain coming from one side of my head.

Then I feel the warmth of someone lying beside me in bed. I wince, finding that I can barely turn my head. Kaitlyn’s soft snores help me to identify her quickly, along with her soft brown curls that decorate my pillow.

I don’t attempt to get up. I already know where I am—judging from the off-white walls and narrow bed with lumpy pillows. A few monitors surrounded me, and I could feel the prick of the needle lying beneath my skin.

I blink to clear my brain fog, though it does little to help. I groan, “Kaitlyn?”

“Hmm?” she responds, though she is barely conscious. She’s a light sleeper in contrast to me.

“Kaitlyn!” I try louder, noting that my body is trapped beneath hers. Of course, she found a way to crawl into my hospital bed.

She finally stirs, “uhhh, I already told you I’m not leaving,” she mutters. After a minute, her dark eyes crack open, meeting mine. It takes a second for her to sit up straight, throwing off the covers.

“Serena?” she whispers, “please tell me you’re actually awake?”

“I’m actually awake,” I smile at her, raising my hand to wipe the tears racing down her cheeks, “Hey… don’t cry. I’m okay.”

“Thank God you’re okay,” she sniffles, “you’ve been out for almost a week.”

I wince as my headache intensifies, “You’re kidding,” I manage.

She hugs me, whispering something inaudible, and my guess is a prayer. “You scared the hell out of me! Do you remember what happened?”

“No. I don’t. But thank you for being here. If I had to wake up to being squeezed and suffocated…I would rather it be by you.”

She rolls her eyes, giving me a soft smile. That’s all I wanted to see.

Suddenly, two nurses enter the room. Kaitlyn gets up to give them space to run checks. Going to sit on one of the chairs that lined the room before pulling her phone from her purse.

The nurse, wearing a name tag titled Phoebe, adjusts my bed and pillows, causing me to sit up straight. While the other, whose name tag says Jamie, takes a mini flashlight from her pocket.

“Look at me,” she instructs before clicking it on. I try not to flinch at the sudden exposure. After a few minutes, she takes the medical chart attached to the side of my bed and scribbles something.

“Ms Moretti, how are you feeling?” Jamie asks, staring at me expectantly.

I try to muster a response, “Weak and dehydrated.”

“Okay, that’s normal. You have been unconscious for 4 days and 8 hours. That’s a long time,” the nurse mentions, but I feel too dazed to give a proper response.

“Here,” Kaitlyn says, opening a water bottle and tipping it towards my lips.

As I drain the bottle, I observe the room… Seeing flower arrangements and balloons. Fruit bowls and boxes of chocolate, along with pastries.

Then, expectedly, two men wearing black suits were guarding the door. How dramatic. All of this is really dramatic. 

After finishing the water, I feel more alive. “Are you feeling any pain?”

“Yes,” I breathe, “my head feels like it was cracked open.”

“Describe the pain on a scale of 1-10 with 10 being the most painful.”

Without thinking, “10,” I reply.

“What’s the last thing you remember?”

The brain fog still hasn’t cleared fully, but I manage to pick up the last few details of what I remember, “getting dressed…for my birthday?”

The nurse's eyebrows furrow in concern, “Can you remember any fragments of the venue?”

“Did we get to the venue?” I ask, looking at Kaitlyn, whose lips are pressed in a straight line. Her eyes are full of tears. “Where is my dad?” I ask, simultaneously.

As soon as I mention him, he bursts through the room door, breathless. “Oh, thank God you’re okay.” His forehead is patched with a red-tinted gauze. I gaze at it as he holds my face, forcing my eyes to meet his.

“I’m okay, Dad,” I smile sadly. I can’t imagine how worried he must’ve been.

Without warning, he crumbles, bringing me into his chest and holding me so tight I can’t help but feel my head is going to pop. His tears wet my face as he sobs. My own sniffles blend with his as we cry together. Holding each other like life depended on it.

And it does.

Moments passed, and the nurses had cleared the room to allow us privacy. Only Dad and Kaitlyn remained. My Dad is now sitting on a chair by my bedside while Kaitlyn tucks herself in my bed once again, resting her shoulder on mine.

I finally gesture to his bandage, “What happened to your head?”

“Sweetheart, I know that you don’t remember what happened,” my father begins, avoiding my gaze as he focuses on the floor, “it will be a whole process before you finally do.”

He’s being rather vague. My father does that thing often, where he tiptoes around touchy subjects to avoid the discomfort of the truth spilling out.

My brain has a way of blocking out trauma. Whenever something terrible happens, it’s like I black out—my mind just erases it, as if it’s trying to protect me from remembering. It started after my mom died, when I could barely cope with the grief. Since then, it’s been my strange, unwanted survival mechanism.

When he looks up again, my eyes find his, and I notice the dark circles that surround them. I also note the excess of grey hair in his untamed beard. It’s been years since I’ve seen my Dad look this unkept.

He’s wearing a t-shirt and a sweatpants. Vance Moretti does not wear t-shirts and sweatpants in public, not to mention the bloody gauze on his forehead, which is due for a change.

“Someone is targeting us,” I hear him say, after zoning out a bit.

“What?” I ask, though I heard him clearly the first time.

“There was a shootout at your birthday party.”

I feel Kaitlyn caressing my hand beneath the covers. Her touch keeps me grounded when I’m so close to leaving my body. I continue to stare at him speechless. It pains me to know that while everyone around me is so shaken…I’m numb and clueless.

“And I know you don’t like the attention, but for now, someone has to watch over you. I can’t take this lightly, Serena.”

As if emerging from the shadows, a man walks in. His black suit is crisp, matching his loose black curls. His presence commands the room. His posture is without slouch, standing tall in all his 6 ft 4 inches glory.

“Holy shit!” Kaitlyn whispers.

Although such a fine piece of specimen is standing a few meters away from me…I’m perplexed.

“You hired a bodyguard?” I ask, addressing my Dad, “You know—”

He shakes his head, “Sweetheart, I know. But the decision is final.”

Before I can protest any further, Dad stands, offering his hand, “Thank you for accepting my request, Mr Lopez.”

“It’s my pleasure, Dr Moretti. Thank you for entrusting this task to me,” he responds, each word coated with a thick Spanish accent.

“Word on the street is that you are the best,” my father adds before glancing at me, “and I have to hire the best to protect my little girl.”

His eyes finally drift to me, pinning me in place. My cheeks heat up after being placed under his scrutiny. Normally, when a man looks at me, it’s hard for him not to be fazed by my beauty.

I’ve experienced it most, if not all, of my life. Both my parents are Italian, and with my wavy, black hair and hazel eyes, I tend to stand out. I inherited my dad’s strong features and my mom’s softer facial structure.

But the man who stands before me doesn’t flinch. His expression is stone cold and unreadable.

“Meet Navier Lopez,” my Dad says, turning to face me, “your bodyguard.”