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Chapter 7

Autor: City Scribe
My mind went blank. The colorful world in front of me faded into gray in an instant.

When Vincent saw that I wasn’t responding, he spoke again. “John said he saw you yesterday in the neurology department at Mount Sinai Hospital. What’s going on with you?”

Slowly, I clenched my fists and forced out an excuse. “I used to work crazy shifts at the restaurant, and the insomnia never really went away. If there’s nothing else, I’ll be leaving.”

After saying that, I walked away. As we passed each other, I caught the faint scent of Vincent’s cologne. I knew then that this was the closest we would ever be in this lifetime.

Outside, I stood there for a long time, staring at the cross rising in the center of the church square, then at the white doves flying across the sky, completely lost in thought. After I got home, I drifted through the next three days in a daze. I stared at the calendar on the wall. It was December 16th. There was only one day left until December 17th, the day Vincent and Elena were getting married.

Today, I had to go to Mount Sinai Hospital to see Dr. Harrison because I could feel my memory getting worse over the past two days. At home, I would forget how to get to the bathroom. The kettle would boil dry, and I would forget how to turn off the stove. When I woke up, I couldn’t remember how the bruises and injuries on my body got there.

What scared me the most was that my memories of Vincent were starting to disappear. Even holding photos in my hands, I couldn’t remember where we went on our dates or what we did together. Sometimes, I would look at his face in the picture, and my mind would be empty, as if I had no memory of him at all.

Two hours later, at Mount Sinai Hospital. I stared at the large self-service registration machine, finding it unfamiliar. Behind me, a long line had formed. Complaints rose one after another.

“Hurry up! What are you standing there for?”

“She looks so young. Does she have dementia? If you’re not registering yourself, move!”

My face burned with embarrassment. Just as I was about to leave, someone stepped in front of me, blocking my way.

A mocking voice sounded above me.

“So it’s you, Christine. I was wondering who such an idiot could be. What’s wrong? Now that you’ve left the Godfather, you can’t even handle something this simple? But it makes sense. You used to be the Donna. People like us did these things for you.”

I looked up, staring blankly at the man’s unfamiliar face. It took a long moment before I finally, sluggishly, remembered this was John.

Expressionless, I pulled his hand away from blocking my path and said coldly, “That’s none of your business.”

Then, I walked forward, only to bump into a trash can at the corner.

Watching me stumble along as I walked, John felt something was off. So, he followed me and watched as I entered an office. Outside that office sat a group of elderly patients with white hair, slow-moving, their expressions dull and vacant.

John frowned, deep in thought. In the end, he took out his phone, snapped a photo, and sent it to Vincent.

Five minutes later, Vincent replied. [From now on, don’t tell me anything about Christine. Whatever happens to her has nothing to do with me.]

At the same time, inside the office, Dr. Harrison looked at me sympathetically.

“Miss Christine, we can no longer slow down your condition with medical treatment. I recommend that you be hospitalized immediately, to avoid accidents while living alone.”

My heart sank, but with my face pale, I nodded.

“I understand, Dr. Harrison. Thank you for taking care of me for the last eight years.”

I forced a small smile, and under his hesitant gaze, I walked out. The moment the elevator doors opened, Vincent and I locked eyes. Beside him, Mr. Vito, seated in a wheelchair, frowned.

“Miss Christine, why are you here? Weren’t you supposed to take the ten million I gave you and leave the country?”

Fragments of memory surfaced from deep within my mind. Only then did I remember that four days ago, I had agreed to Vincent’s father’s terms. I was supposed to go to Longyearbyen and never return to New York.

At that moment, Vincent spoke. “Ten million? Christine, is money really that important to you?”

I looked at his dark expression, wanting to explain, but when I opened my mouth, what came out was a cold retort.

“Of course, Mr. Vincent. You were born the eldest son of the Medici family, while I was born in the worst neighborhood in Brooklyn. Everyone there sells their bodies and their dignity just to survive. And you want me to say money doesn’t matter? Sorry. I can’t.”

Upon hearing that, Vincent’s gaze toward me turned cold. His voice was filled with disgust as he said, “You make me sick.”

After that, he pushed Mr. Vito’s wheelchair into the elevator. As the doors closed, his stare cut right through me.

“Christine, someone like you doesn’t deserve to be loved.”
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