Chapter 17

Myrah's POV

My head ached excruciatingly. It felt as if a sharp dagger had been plunged into my head. Helplessly, I flung my head back against the pillows.

I closed my eyes, tears streaming out uncontrollably as I hoped the misery would soon end. I'm done with these headaches.

My migraines have the ability to debilitate and confine me. They made me flimsy and insane. They were sporadic but quite powerful.

Nearly three months had passed since my last excruciating migraine. That one had me throwing up, completely immobilized, and with fuzzy vision. I had no one to care for me during those trying days. I had my bedroom and myself.

I made an effort to consider what might have brought on the migraine but realized that doing so simply made the pain worse, so I gave up.

Even though the ache had lingered all night, I was unable to phone either Regina or Martha. I felt queasy and like my legs were made of jello. My eyes were going round and round, and my head was spinning.

I was unable to cope with the discomfort at all. The arrhythmic music that damaged the melody I desired in life was the last song, and I urgently needed help.

I recalled having my medication. Medication, of course, was the solution. The entire night, I had been far too lethargic to pick up the bottle of tablets on the nightstand, naively hoping that the pain would go away on its own.

At one point in my life, antidepressants were a part of who I was. Without them, I couldn't survive. My entire existence depended on them, and I would suffer the misery silently. Who really cared?

Despite the fact that they calmed my anxiety, they had a negative impact on me. They introduced migraines, a much more powerful foe I was now facing.

I occasionally had headaches as a child, but they got worse and were harder to manage once I started using antidepressants.

I had mastered the art of controlling my pill use, and after much effort, I had finally reached the point where I could go at least two weeks without using them—though I did have a supply on hand just in case.

I had started a brand-new drug. Ibuprofen and triptans were prescribed by the doctor I had seen. They were a great aid to me and almost had no negative effects on me.

I groggily raised my hand to the bottle on the nightstand. I fought to get there, gently groaning in agony as I moved only made the pain worse.

When the bottle tipped and collapsed, all of my attempts were in vain as I heard the contents of the bottle spill onto the ground. It has to be open or improperly closed.

On the nightstand by my bed, I kept three of these bottles. One included ibuprofen, another triptans, and the last SSRIs. Every night I made sure to keep my bottles close by in case of necessity, and this was the situation.

All of my bottles fell to the ground, stuck against the odds, and I heard the other two roll to the other side of the room. What kind of game was fate engaging in with me? Was there a prank on me?

As the anguish grew worse, I could feel the end approaching. I required a rescuer. I prayed in private for one, anyone. My phone vibrated under my pillow as if by magic. God, I thank you!

I exerted all of my might and groped for my phone because this was my only chance. I found it difficult to look at the dazzling screen. I answered the phone despite the fact that all the numbers were fuzzy.

Sleeping Beauty, get up and shine; the day is coming.

I mumbled, "Nick," clumsily.

Are you okay, Myrah? Is everything okay?

Weakly, I pleaded with him, "Please help me."

  "Where are you?"

I stammered, "at home." Migraine, and then the phone, which had been shaking the entire time, slid from my grasp.

I was terrified. I had often wished for death, but now that it had come, I was afraid. I desired to survive. I yearned to live.

Nick might still be on the phone, as I could hear voices in the distance. He was my only hope, and I believed he would arrive on time. I had faith in him.

As soon as I closed my eyes, sleep enveloped me. In the darkness. It was completely dark. Even in my nightmares, the pain continued to resound, or rather, pound.

After what felt like a lifetime, I felt a moist cloth on my scorching forehead and an injection-like sting on my arm. I detested getting shots.

My eyes sprang open. My vision was initially fuzzy but eventually became clear. Nick opened a medicine kit and placed it in front of him while he sat on the bed next to me, holding my hand tenderly.

His pleasant eyes were obscured by worry. Nick had compassion. There was no ambiguity regarding that. He simply caused my heart to beat faster.

"Ni..."

Myrah, just breathe and unwind. "Shhhh. Don't say a word. You'll be okay."

So I paid attention to him and let the competent one handle the task. My heart pounded as I watched him use another syringe. I was in full-on panic mode. The sting bothered me.

I stared at him while my anxiety filled my eyes.

He nudged me and said, "Come on Myrah, it won't hurt that bad. It will sting just a little bit."

I muttered, "I'm terrified."

He gazed into my eyes and whispered, "trust me, Paris. There's no need to be scared. I'm here."

Just as I was getting closer to him, he assisted me in sitting up. I laid my head on his chest, clutching his denim jacket like it was the only thing keeping me alive.

He gently massaged the back of my head with his warm hand as I closed my eyes, followed by a sting. I put up with the discomfort and, for the first time, realized it wasn't all that bad.

I felt safe and secure in Nick's arms, and I wished we could maintain that position a little while longer. I hadn't experienced such a warm embrace in a while.

I started getting head massages from Nick. I could tell he was really professional since he was able to calm me down and the pain gradually began to subside.

Do I need to call Val?

"No, he's probably very busy right now," I said.

It won't matter, to put it another way. He is unconcerned.

You are his wife, thus you are his priority. Val is a really kind man. The Valentino I know would drop everything he is doing right now, book the first ticket from Paris to New York, and fly here for you.

He is, but I don't want to undermine his efforts because of a pointless headache.

Myrah, it's not ridiculous. Migraines kill. Your condition was critical. He emphasized this point while tensing his hands, which I could feel.

But now I'm fine.

"I don't know why he left you behind. Paris is the city of love. You guys just got married. Anything can happen to you at any time."

After the flight from the Seychelles, I was weary, so I insisted on sticking behind.

With suspicion seeping from his voice, he inquired, "And why aren't you in his bedroom?" I thought you guys were now sharing his bedroom.

The direction things were headed, I didn't like.

Our bedroom is one of my favorite rooms in the house, so when he is not around, I seize the opportunity and enjoy this comfort. I

don't like being in our bed without him, "I felt sick so I didn't want to spoil our bedroom."