Married to the Man Who Can’t Wake Up

Anna followed Arthur down a long, echoing hallway. Portraits of past Livingstons stared down from the walls, their painted eyes seeming to judge her plain clothes and worn suitcase. The only sound was the soft click of their shoes on marble.

Arthur stopped before a heavy oak door and pushed it open. The air that flowed out smelled like antiseptic mixed with cloying potpourri.

The bedroom was enormous. Dark, heavy antiques. But the curtains were drawn tight, and the only light came from the blinking LEDs of medical machines next to the massive four-poster bed. It felt less like a room and more like a tomb.

Her eyes went straight to the man in the bed.

Guy Livingston.

Even unconscious, he radiated power. Sharp angles. Strong lines. Broad shoulders beneath the fine linen sheets. Only the unnatural paleness of his skin gave away his condition.

“This is Mr. Guy Livingston,” Arthur said, voice flat. “Your duties are to care for him. Until… there is a change.”

Anna nodded and set her suitcase down. She walked directly to the bedside and picked up Guy’s wrist, her fingers finding his pulse.

Arthur watched her, a slight frown creasing his brow, but he said nothing.

The pulse was weak. Consistent with a deep coma. But as her fingers rested on his skin, a strange wrongness crawled up her arm. Something was off.

She released his wrist and gently lifted the corner of the duvet, exposing his lower leg. She pressed her thumb into his calf. Firm. Dense with muscle. Not soft. No sign of the wasting that should have come from six months of lying still.

“We have a team of the best physical therapists,” Arthur said. “They work with him daily to prevent muscle loss.”

Anna gave a small sound. Her gaze swept over the monitors. Heart rate low. Blood pressure steady. All the data pointed to a persistent vegetative state. But her instincts—honed by years of her grandfather’s teachings—screamed that it was a lie.

She reached out to check his eyes.

Her fingers were millimeters from his eyelid when Arthur spoke again. “Miss Curtis. Your room is next door. You should rest.”

Her hand froze. She slowly pulled it back, meeting Arthur’s eyes in the dim light. He was a guardian. Stopping her from looking too closely.

“Of course,” she said, voice mild. “But before I rest, I’d like to prepare my husband’s first treatment.”

She opened her suitcase. No fine clothes or jewelry. Neatly arranged in padded compartments were sets of silver needles and dozens of small corked vials filled with dried herbs.

Arthur’s eyes flickered over the contents with a hint of disdain.

Anna ignored him, picking a few vials. “I’ll need the kitchen to prepare a decoction of these. And please have a hot bath drawn in his bathroom.”

Her tone wasn’t a request. It was calm, confident instruction.

Arthur hesitated, then gave a stiff nod and left.

The door clicked shut. Anna looked down at Guy Livingston’s still face.

“Playing sick is a bad habit, Mr. Livingston,” she murmured, barely a breath. “Let’s see what kind of game you’re really playing.”

She picked up a single silver needle from its case. It glinted in the cold light of the monitors. A real patient, she knew, wouldn’t be able to hide their body’s response.