Page 30 of The Senator's Wife

“Sure, it’s fine.”

“I love you. Don’t forget that.” His lips brushed her cheek.

Sloane sat alone at the table after he’d gone, still fuming, when Madelyn sauntered over. “Well, he seems to have abandoned you,” she said. “But who can blame him? I mean, what man as young and virile as Whit wants to be saddled with a wife who needs a cane to get around?”

It took everything in Sloane’s power not to whack her with it. She took a deep breath, reminding herself not to let Madelyn seehow much she was getting to her. “He’s not interested in you, Madelyn. Everything he wants is right here. When are you going to get that message?” Sloane was fighting to stay calm.

“Oh, really? Is that what he’s told you?” Her smile was mocking.

“You’re starting to sound desperate, Madelyn.”

“You think so? I met that luscious piece of ass you hired. Athena? That’s her name, right? She’s enough to keep any man happy.”

Sloane rose from her seat. “You really are despicable, you know that?”

She started to walk away, but Madelyn placed her hand on the cane, stopping Sloane. “You don’t know him at all, do you? He wants it all, honey—lots of power, lots of money, lots of sex—and his appetites are huge. More than you could ever give him.” Madelyn removed her hand, smiling cruelly.

“Get out of my house, Madelyn.”

“Don’t worry. I was just leaving. Whit’s the only one I wanted to see here anyway,” she said, then turned and walked away.

Sloane felt as if she were being attacked and torn apart on all sides—with a predatory bitch after her husband, and worst of all, the lupus that wanted to kill her. Fists clenched, she inhaled deeply and held her head up high. She’d survived worse things before, and she wasn’t about to give up now. This flare would be behind her in no time, and once it was, she’d whisk Whit away for a long weekend so they could reconnect romantically. And when they returned, she’d have a nice chat with Madelyn and let her know in no uncertain terms that Whit was off-limits.

- 24 -

SLOANE

It all went downhill for Sloane after the donor party. Over the following weeks, the familiar and all-consuming fatigue began to creep in—not the “I need some rest” sort of tired, but the “I can’t even open my eyes or lift my arm” kind of exhaustion. Everything hurt—the clothing against her skin, her swollen wrists and fingers, even her eyelashes. The headaches were constant, and nausea swept over her in waves. She could barely uncurl her hands. Some days were better than others, and on those days, Sloane was hopeful that she might be coming out of it. But for the last four days, there’d been no letup. After the shot hadn’t done the trick, Dr. Porter had increased her other medicines and ordered bed rest until the flare was under control.

No healthy person could really understand what it was like to live with a chronic illness, Sloane thought, particularly one like hers that had no cure. When she was feeling good, she was always aware in the back of her mind that this silent monster lying in wait could strike her down at any moment. The most isolating feeling in the world was knowing that others were going on with their lives, taking walks, shopping, going to concerts, while she was stuck in her room yet another day.

“Stop feeling sorry for yourself,” she chastised herself out loud. Pushing her body to the edge of the bed, she put her feet on the floor and reached for her cane. Lying around in pajamas all day wasn’t helping. She made her way to the bathroom, doing her best to ignore the pain shooting up her legs and the burning on the bottoms of her feet. She spent the next hour showering and doing herhair and makeup. When she returned to the bedroom, she chose a pair of navy slacks and a gray sweater and sat on the bed while she changed. “That’s better.” She forced a smile to her lips and moved over to the chaise longue, where an anthology of poetry awaited her. She’d only read a few pages when Whit walked in.

“Don’t you look nice! Having a good day?” he asked as he came over and gave her a peck on the lips.

“Yes, much better,” she said, even though it wasn’t true. “What do you have there?” She inclined her head toward the shopping bag he held in one hand. In his other hand was her Ember smart mug.

He sat on the edge of the chaise longue and handed her the mug. “Green tea to help with inflammation. No caffeine, of course.”

“Thank you,” she said, taking a sip.

“And now just a few things to show you how much I love you.” He pulled out the first box and handed it to her.

She put the mug down and took the box. Bottega Veneta. She couldn’t imagine what it was. Lifting the lid, she pulled out a gorgeous black-and-white halter dress.

Whit smiled at her. “As soon as I saw it, I thought of you. Once you’re better, I’m taking you away to the islands and can’t wait to see you in it.”

For a moment, she allowed herself to imagine them on vacation, her healthy and wearing this beautiful dress. She reached out and squeezed his hand. “So thoughtful! Thank you.”

“There’s more.” He grinned as he pulled out a smaller box.

“Gucci. What could this be?” Removing the top, she saw it was the Flora bracelet she’d admired a few months ago when they were shopping at City Center. She pulled the delicate gold and diamond piece from the box. “It’s so lovely. But you shouldn’t have.”

Whit took it from her and fastened it on her wrist. “Of course I should. Anything to cheer up my beautiful wife. But there’s more.”

“Whit, this is too much. Really…”

“You know how I like to spoil you. Last one. Go ahead.”

---