Chapter 37: Dr. Nate Pierce
**Mia’s POV**
Empty rooms.
I wandered the halls of Kyle’s mansion–our mansion, technically, though it had never truly felt like mine.
Three days. Three days since Taylor’s triumphant display at the store. Three days since Kyle had last been home. Three days of silence that proved every bitter word Taylor had spoken.
I convinced myself not to care. I. Don’t. Care.
“Mrs. Branson?” Mrs. Chen’s voice carried a note of concern I was growing tired of hearing. “Your breakfast is
getting cold.”
I turned from the window, forcing a smile. “I’m not very hungry.”
“You need to eat.” She moved closer, her usually composed face creased with worry. “You’ve barely touched
anything these past few days.”
“I know.” The words came out softer than intended. “I just… can’t.”
Mrs. Chen hesitated, then said quietly, “Mr. Branson called. He wanted to know if you’re taking your
medication.”
Whoa. The perfect husband, checking on his unstable wife.
“Did he mention where he’s been?” The question slipped out before I could stop it.
Mrs. Chen’s silence was answer enough.
“Never mind.” I turned back to the window. “I don’t want to know.”
But I did know. We all knew. Taylor had made sure of that, flaunting her triumph all over social media. Each
post was a carefully crafted dagger: dinner at Le Cirque, shopping sprees with Kyle’s credit card, intimate moments captured in filtered perfection. Each one tagged with variations of “my soulmate” or “finally where
we belong.”
My phone buzzed–a reminder from the hospital. Mom’s first surgery was scheduled for the day after tomorrow. The most critical of the three procedures that could potentially wake her from her coma. The
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Chapter 37: Dr. Nate Pierce
procedures that Kyle had arranged, that Kyle was funding…
The thought sent ice through my veins.
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“Mrs. Chen,” I said, still staring out at the manicured gardens, “could you have James bring the car around? I need to go to the hospital.”
“Of course.” She paused at the door. “Should I inform Mr. Branson?”
“No.” The word came out sharper than intended. “This has nothing to do with him.”
The drive to the hospital felt longer than usual, each familiar landmark a reminder of how my life had narrowed
to this loop: home to hospital, hospital to home. A gilded cage with only one window to the outside world.
Dr. Matthews was waiting in her office, her usual professional calm somehow more ominous today. Files spread
across her desk–Mom’s medical records, treatment plans, financial documents that made my head spin.
“Dr. Matthews,” I began, forcing my voice to remain steady, “could you explain my mother’s current condition
in detail? I need to understand exactly what we’re dealing with.”
She nodded, pulling out several brain scans. “Your mother’s coma is caused by multiple factors. There’s
significant pressure on her brain stem, which controls basic functions like breathing and heart rate. Additionally, we’ve detected areas of restricted blood flow in her temporal and parietal lobes.”
“And these areas–what do they control?”
“The temporal lobe handles memory and emotional processing, while the parietal lobe manages sensory information and spatial awareness.” She pointed to different areas on the scans. “See these darker regions? That’s where we’re seeing reduced activity.”
I leaned forward, studying the images. “What are her chances? Really?”
Dr. Matthews‘ expression turned serious. “Without intervention? Less than 20% chance of regaining consciousness. With these surgeries?” She paused. “We could be looking at 70-80% success rate.”
“Why such a dramatic difference?”
“Because of our surgical approach.” She pulled out more detailed diagrams. “We’re planning a three–stage procedure. The first surgery will address the pressure on her brain stem. The second will focus on improving blood flow to the affected areas. The third will involve neural stimulation and-”
I watched as she traced each step on the diagrams, my throat tightening with those details. “And the recovery
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time between surgeries?” I asked, trying to focus on practical matters rather than the fear growing in my chest.
“We recommend four to six weeks between each procedure,” Dr. Matthews explained. “This allows proper
healing and lets us monitor her responses before proceeding to the next stage. The entire process, including recovery periods, could take up to six months.”
Six months. Half a year of surgeries, of hope, of waiting. My fingers twisted in my lap as I thought about the implications–not just medical, but financial. Which brought me to the question I’d been dreading to ask.
“How much?” The words finally escaped me, barely above a whisper. “For all of it?”
Dr. Matthews hesitated before naming a figure that made my blood run cold. The number had so many zeros it
barely seemed real. 1
“That’s…” I struggled to find words.
“Per surgery,” she added gently. “Each stage requires different specialists, equipment, and post–operative care. The total cost for all three procedures, including recovery care, would be approximately triple that
amount.”
I felt the room spin slightly.
“The procedures work in sequence,” she explained, her voice sympathetic but firm. “Think of it like building a house–you need the foundation before you can build the walls, and the walls before the roof. Each surgery
builds on the success of the previous one.”
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She pulled out another file. “The cost is particularly high because we’ve managed to bring in Dr. Nathan Pierce -Dr. Nate, as he’s known in the field. He’s one of the top neurosurgeons in the world, and he rarely takes
private cases anymore.”
“Dr. Nate?” I repeated, the name unfamiliar.
“Yes, he’s-” Dr. Matthews started, but was interrupted by a knock at the door.
“Speaking of…” She smiled. “Dr. Pierce, please come in.”
I turned, expecting to see an older man–perhaps in his sixties, grey–haired and bespectacled, with the weathered gravitas that usually came with decades of medical experience. Instead, I found myself facing a man who looked nothing like the mental image I’d constructed.
Dr. Nate Pierce was young–probably in his mid–thirties–and startlingly handsome. Tall and athletic, he
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carried himself with an easy grace that made his tailored blue suit look as casual as beachwear. His windswept
blonde hair caught the afternoon light, giving him an almost golden halo, while striking blue eyes the color of a
summer ocean sparkled with intelligence. High cheekbones and a strong, defined jaw gave him an almost
movie–star quality. With his sun–kissed skin and confident bearing, he looked more like he belonged on a
surfboard in Malibu than in an operating room.
“Mia Williams?” he said, his voice carrying a hint of surprise.
I blinked, thrown by his use of my maiden name. “Actually, it’s-”
“Mia Williams?” he said, his voice carrying a hint of surprise.
I blinked, thrown by his use of my maiden name. “Actually, it’s-”
“It is you,” he said, a smile brightening his already handsome face. “I never thought I’d see you.”
“I’m sorry?” I said.
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