The flight was an island of surreal luxury in the churning sea of my anxiety. It was the most opulent way I had ever traveled, a world away from the cramped business class seats I was accustomed to. The plush, cream-colored leather seat felt more like a throne, and the profound silence of the cabin was broken only by the gentle hum of the engines. I missed Carlos with a physical ache that settled deep in my chest. The impeccably polite flight attendants, sensing my somber mood, offered champagne, a charcuterie board, and warm towels with a sympathetic smile. I respectfully declined everything. I just wanted the solid, reassuring presence of the man who had put me on this plane. They could provide everything except the one thing I truly needed.
Instead, I stared blankly at the large screen playing Gossip Girl, the dramatic lives of Manhattan's elite feeling like a distant, fictional universe. My own reality was too pressing, too raw. I pulled the cashmere blanket he'd undoubtedly stocked the jet with tighter around me, trying to find comfort in the lingering trace of his sandalwood scent.
We touched down in Dallas just after 10:30 PM. The timeline made sense: a three-hour flight from the East Coast, plus time for takeoff and landing, placed us in the late evening. The plane taxied not to a public gate, but to another secluded, luxurious fixed-base operator (FBO) that mirrored the one we'd left. Through the window, I saw a sleek, modern terminal building, its glass walls glowing warmly. The tarmac was pristine, hosting only a handful of other private jets. It was a bubble of silence and exclusivity, a stark contrast to the roaring, chaotic main terminals I knew.
The moment the seatbelt sign dinged off, a flight attendant informed me softly, "Ms. Reynolds, we've arrived. Your car is ready whenever you are."
I was escorted down the airstairs, where the humid Texas night air, thick and warm, wrapped around me. A black Rolls-Royce, as silent and imposing as a panther, waited just feet away. A uniformed driver was already loading my luggage into the trunk. He opened the rear door for me without a word.
Sliding into the cool, leather-scented interior, I felt a strange sense of detachment. The driver didn't ask for my destination. He simply got in and began to drive. I didn't bother to tell him anything; I was too tired, and a part of me already knew. Carlos's efficiency was both terrifying and comforting.
But as we pulled up to the curb, my brow furrowed in confusion. This wasn't the public, overcrowded hospital I'd looked up online—the one I knew Austin would have chosen, prioritizing cheapness over comfort. This was different.
The building before us was a testament to modern medicine and immense wealth. Soaring glass and smooth granite, it looked more like a five-star hotel than a medical facility. Soft, architectural lighting illuminated manicured gardens and a serene water feature at the entrance. A discreet sign read: Dallas Presbyterian Medical Center – The Goldman Tower. This was where the city's elite came for discreet, world-class care.
"This isn't right," I said, my voice tight with confusion. "I'm supposed to be going to Parkland Memorial. That's where my family is."
The driver met my eyes in the rearview mirror, his expression calm and professional. "No, ma'am. My instructions were to bring you directly here."
I sighed, the "ma'am" grating on my nerves. "You can call me Hannah. Ma'am makes me feel old." I leaned forward slightly, my anxiety making me sharp. "Who told you to bring me here?"
"My boss's orders, Ms. Reynolds."
"And who is your boss?" I asked, though I already knew the answer.
"Mr. Blackwood."
The name hung in the air, both an answer and a question. Of course. Carlos had intervened again. "Okay," I whispered, the fight draining out of me.
The driver came around and opened my door. The moment I stepped out, the shock of the transition hit me. The car's perfectly calibrated climate control had shielded me from the aggressive blast of the hospital's air conditioning. Now, a wave of artificially cold air hit me, raising goosebumps on my arms and making me shiver in my thin hoodie and skirt. It felt like walking into a refrigerator, the cold seeping deep into my bones.
Taking a deep, steadying breath, I squared my shoulders and walked toward the automatic glass doors. I was no longer in Carlos's curated world of luxury. I was entering a different kind of fortress—one of illness, uncertainty, and a past I had tried to outrun. But for the first time, I wasn't walking in alone. The invisible, powerful hand of Carlos Blackwood had already rearranged the chessboard before I'd even arrived.
I made a mental note to call Carlos and thank him. First, I had to find her.
I approached the vast, polished granite desk in the Serenity Wing's private lobby. A receptionist named Isabelle, according to her pin, looked up with a warm, professional smile. Even at this hour, the wing was fully staffed.
"Good evening. How can I help you?" she asked, her voice hushed to match the tranquil atmosphere.
"I'm here for Diane Reynolds," I said, my voice barely above a whisper.
"Of course, Ms. Reynolds. She's in suite 804." Isabelle didn't even need to check her computer; she already knew. "The nursing station is just down the hall to your left. They are expecting you."
Expecting me. Of course they were. Carlos had orchestrated everything down to the last detail.
"Thank you, Isabelle," I said, my heart pounding.
Stepping away, I found a quiet alcove with a plush chair, overlooking the glittering Dallas skyline. I unlocked my phone. It was now just after 11:00 PM here, which meant it was a little after 9:00 PM in Los Angeles. He answered on the first ring.
"Tesoro." His voice was a low, familiar rumble, a sound that instantly unspooled the tight knot of anxiety in my chest. It felt like a warm blanket on this cold night.
"Carlos," I breathed, a tear finally escaping and tracing a path down my cheek. "You know what you did. Thank you. Thank you so much." The words tumbled out in a rushed, emotional torrent. "You got her into this place... You are literally like an angel sent to me. I don't even know how I can repay you. You do so much, and I feel like I can't even return the favor."
"Anything for you, Tesoro," he said, his tone impossibly calm and steady. "You don't have to think about repaying me. Ever. Your peace of mind is the only currency I'm interested in."
His words were a balm. I wanted to curl up and sob with the sheer relief of being cared for so thoroughly. We talked for a few more minutes as I walked toward the elevators, his voice a steadying presence in my ear.
"Okay," I whispered finally, standing outside the door to suite 804. "I think I'm here. I should... I should go in."
"Call me. Any time. Day or night. I mean it," he said, his voice firm.
"I will. Goodnight, Carlos."
"Goodnight, my treasure."
The call ended. I took a deep, shuddering breath, my hand hovering over the polished handle of the door. This was it. Gathering every ounce of courage, I pushed the door open.
And I was shocked at what I saw.