Total pages in book: 146
Estimated words: 142214 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 711(@200wpm)___ 569(@250wpm)___ 474(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 142214 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 711(@200wpm)___ 569(@250wpm)___ 474(@300wpm)
She now realized he’d disappeared like that to avoid what he couldn’t control. Whenever they got close, he pulled away. Part of her still feared his old habits might resurface, which explained why she felt perfectly fine with taking things slow.
When another car rushed by, startling her, she winced, wondering again why she had chosen to do this.
“You’re doing this for Greyson,” she reminded herself.
Over the years, he’d shown patience with Bodhi. He always stepped in whenever they needed something she couldn’t manage on her own. Now, her turn had come to do the same. But the truth was, she owed Magnus Hawthorne nothing.
After years of disparaging remarks and resentment towards his sons, the boys held little expectation that their father would change in the short time he had left. Magnus had trained his sons to hide their emotions, and now, as he reached the end of his life, he reaped what he sowed. Three sons and not a glimpse of concern or emotion over his peril.
The truth was, she was doing this as much for herself as for Greyson. Her mother’s voice echoed in her memory, “Even the thorniest roses need love and water, sweetheart.”
Magnus Hawthorne might be dying alone by his own design, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t ease his suffering. As Haven’s daughter, she felt compelled to put even the most difficult men at ease, but she also felt she owed this visit to Sable.
Relief flooded her when she made it to the hospital in one piece. Wren pried her fingers from the wheel and took a few minutes to simply regulate her breathing.
The hospital smelled like lemon disinfectant until she reached the wing where Magnus stayed. The subdued scent of a luxury furniture store overtook the air. The floor gleamed like a gallery, and the art on the walls wasn’t mass-printed. Instead, it showcased collection pieces from local artists, featuring coastal oil paintings displayed in brass frames.
The Hawthornes had built the wing before Sable died. But she never had the chance to use it. The irony wasn’t lost on her—Sable had helped plan this beautiful space meant to heal the wealthy and powerful, but died before she could benefit from her own generosity. Instead, her bitter husband would likely be its most prominent patient.
Wren hated hospitals, so she tried to pretend she simply walked through an ordinary hall in an ordinary building, and all those beeps and bells sounded like creaks and birds chirping.
She adjusted the woven basket on her arm and covered the collection of self-care items she brought. They weren’t anything special, just a few things she had around the spa, but she had chosen each item to bring Magnus a little peace. Handmade peppermint balm, beeswax salve for the rough spots of his heels, elbows, and hands, a lavender eye pillow, some infused oils to help with inflammation, an old hardcover biography of Reagan, and a knit throw Bodhi insisted she bring.
At the end of the hall, a polished brass plate read, Private Suite: M. Hawthorne.
She hesitated, drawing in a deep breath. Magnus had earned a reputation for cutting his sons off mid-sentence and he took no issue verbally eviscerating them in Wren’s presence—most likely because he never took much notice when she entered a room.
She steadied her hand and knocked lightly—then entered before she could lose her nerve. “Knock, knock.”
The room looked more like a hotel than a hospital. A sitting area occupied the corner, complete with tufted chairs, heavy navy drapes framing a wall of windows, and a side table with a crystal water pitcher and cut-glass tumblers no nurse had ever touched.
Magnus lay sunken into a reclined hospital bed positioned toward the windows. If he spoke, she couldn’t hear him over the murmur of the television. As she rounded the bed, she met his ice-blue eyes over the oxygen mask and smiled nervously.
The sight of him shocked her more than she’d expected. This was Magnus Hawthorne—the man who’d intimidated her since childhood, who commanded rooms with his presence and could silence his grown sons with a look. Now he appeared diminished, almost fragile, his powerful frame reduced to sharp angles beneath the hospital blankets.
“Hi, Mr. Hawthorne.” While Sable had always just been Sable, Wren had never received an invitation to call Magnus by his first name. She only referred to him as such in the presence of the boys, who also called him Magnus. She set down the basket with a shaky hand. “I brought you some presents.”
His brow furrowed with confusion as she lowered the basket gently, not wanting to rattle the glass of water.
“Is it okay that I’m here?”
He didn’t respond with a yes or a no.
“If you’re too tired for visitors, I can come back.”
His rheumatoid finger pointed to the chair, slow and unsteady, then lowered with a commanding gesture. She obediently dropped into the seat.