CHAPTER 7; UNSPOKEN FEELINGS

The atmosphere during dinner that evening hung heavy with unspoken tension. As they sat at the dining table, Isabella's gaze remained fixed on Mark, a silent insistence for answers. Mark, hoping she would abandon her inquiry, attempted to lighten the mood.

"You don't need to hover around me like a mother bird," he remarked, attempting a playful tone, "it rarely happens twice in a day."

Her response was apologetic, "I'm sorry, but you didn't see yourself; it scared me shitless."

Mark, seeking refuge in humor, quipped, "I've been told I have that effect on people."

Frustrated, Isabella couldn't fathom his nonchalant attitude. "How can you make jokes in a situation like this?" she exclaimed.

"Because that is all I have left to do," he retorted, the edge in his voice nearly causing him to spill his meal.

"Don't act like witnessing it for one night means you understand the pain and horrors I've suffered for the last five months."

His emotions spilled out as he continued, "Don't even dare try to act like you understand. You ask if I should joke about it, well, I've tried everything… nothing has worked so far. So yes, all I have left are my jokes and my wits."

Mark longed for an outlet, a way to release the frustration that welled within him. Yet, tears, a symbol of vulnerability he had avoided for so long, seemed elusive.

He grappled with the realization that perhaps his perceived strength was nothing more than a facade crumbling under the weight of his struggles.

"Sorry," Isabella said defensively, "I was wrong to assume… I was just trying to help."

"Would you let me?" she innocently inquired, her intentions unclear to Mark—was it pity or sincerity?

"I don't need your pity, Isabella," Mark asserted firmly. The mere thought of pity grated against the independence he had fought so hard to maintain throughout his life.

In response, Isabella unleashed a torrent of frustration. "Oh, you arrogant, self-absorbed man… are you so full of yourself that you can't even see when someone is sincerely worried about you?" Her anger, a new facet of her personality for Mark, was both surprising and oddly captivating.

As she yelled, Mark found himself strangely enjoying the confrontation. "Worry and pity are different sides of the same coin," he countered, watching her face shift from anger to bewilderment as she settled back into her chair.

"You know what, Mark, you actually need that pity more than you think," she declared, her tone resolute. Gathering the remnants of their meal, she stormed off toward the sink, leaving Mark to grapple with the conflicting emotions stirred by their heated exchange.

Observing her retreating figure, Mark felt a yearning to embrace her and allow his emotions to surface, yet the formidable walls he had built over the years resisted any such vulnerability

"Listen…" Mark began, his voice trailing off as he approached Isabella by the sink. However, his words dissipated as he noticed her quietly sobbing. She turned away, attempting to conceal the tears that streamed down her face.

This emotional display was foreign territory for Mark Matthews. In his prime, he had been involved with supermodels, movie stars, and business executives. Breakups were more likely to involve swearing or projectiles than tears.

As he gently turned Isabella around, he discovered a vulnerability he hadn't anticipated. Her red eyes and tear-streaked cheeks spoke volumes. With a firm yet gentle hand on her shoulder, he wiped away her tears with his thumb, apologizing, "Hey… I am sorry. I didn't mean to be insensitive. I'm sorry."

Leading her to a dining chair, Mark acknowledged with resignation, "You're right. You deserve to know everything."

"But we might need the wine; it's a long story," he added, offering a wink. Isabella nodded, a thin smile playing across her lips, as they prepared to navigate the complexities of his past that lingered in the shadows

It took a bottle and a half of wine for Mark to gather the courage to share the memories of that day six months earlier when it all began.

The first seizure had been dismissed as a probable allergic reaction, prompting Mark to watch his diet, uncertain of the allergen. However, the second episode occurred more publicly.

Celebrating a successful deal, Mark was returning home from his company's office in Burbank when a blinding headache struck. While concealing his discomfort from Joe, his chauffeur, the car hit a minor speed bump, triggering a seizure. Joe quickly parked, and miraculously, Mark recovered before any bystanders could intervene.

Preferring to be driven home rather than to a hospital, Mark called Elizabeth, who was then the senior manager at the San Francisco branch of his company. She flew over, and together they sought consultations at private clinics. The initial scans revealed nothing abnormal in his brain—no tumor, clot, or fluid. Despite the inconclusive results, the headaches persisted.

After another severe seizure, Mark and Elizabeth went to San Francisco for further check-ups. A brain scan unveiled a gradual cerebral edema, an abnormal accumulation of fluid within the brain tissue.

This condition led to increased intracranial pressure, as the expanding brain pressed against the skull. The recurrent seizures were attributed to the compression of neural structures within the cranium. But despite extensive blood work and scans, the source of the cerebral edema remained unidentified.

The doctors prescribed benzodiazepines, the medication that had slowed down Mark's seizures. However, the headaches lingered, occasionally triggering seizures.

As Mark recounted these details, the weight of his medical condition and the mysterious nature of his ailment became palpable. The wine had loosened the grip on his emotions, laying bare the vulnerability that lay beneath his confident exterior.

"So, that's why you disappeared from the public eye?" Isabella asked, her gaze filled with a mixture of empathy and understanding.

Mark found himself nodding in acknowledgment. "Yes," he admitted, "if this gets out, it would be catastrophic to everything I've worked hard to build over the years. I couldn't allow that."

She listened attentively, not interrupting his narrative. "That must have been hard for someone like you," she remarked, sensing the weight of his predicament.

"You have no idea," he replied. "Thankfully, I had Elizabeth who has helped take the reins of the day-to-day affairs where I left off."

Isabella pondered for a moment before asking about his celebrity friends. "Didn't anyone ever think to check on you?"

"Friends?" Mark chuckled. "In my line of work, there are no friends… only common interests. The only thing my celebrity friends care about is how I manage their assets and investments. As long as I keep making the big bucks for them, nothing else matters."

"That sounds like a lonely way to live," she countered, her observation hanging in the air.

"But wait…" she continued, "you traveled the week I started here, right?"

"Sometimes, I take international trips to meet foreign physicians. So far, it hasn't yielded much," he explained, revealing another layer of the complexities that shaped his life.

As the gravity of the situation slowly sank in, neither of them spoke for a while until Mark, seemingly satisfied with Isabella's reaction, muttered, "So you asked to know everything, well, there you go."

He deliberately omitted the part about the limited time he might have left, unsure of how she would respond to that particular revelation. Their interactions that evening had revealed her genuine concern, and although he appreciated it, he understood that this was his burden to bear alone.

Where she sat, he could see her eyes filled with curiosity and concern. Unable to hold back any longer, she asked the question that had been lingering in her mind.

"Mark, I've been thinking. Why didn't they recommend surgery to relieve the pressure in your brain?" she inquired, her gaze fixed on him.

Mark took a deep breath, contemplating how much he should reveal. He decided honesty was the best policy.

"Isabella, the location of the pressure buildup is in a delicate part of my brain. The risks associated with surgery in that specific area are high. A wrong move during the procedure could lead to severe consequences, affecting critical functions. The medical experts have carefully considered all options, and surgery was deemed impractical and too risky," he explained, his tone somber.

He could see the concern deepening in Isabella's eyes, and he continued, "The prescribed medication helps manage the seizures by slowing down their frequency, and despite the persistent headaches, it's the safest approach for now. It's a challenging situation, but it seems the best course of action given the circumstances."

Isabella nodded, absorbing the gravity of the situation. The complex medical explanation didn't make the journey any easier, but at least it offered some understanding of the limitations of available treatments.

She reached for his hand as she leaned towards him. "I can't begin to imagine all that you've gone through all this while, but I want you to know that you are not alone any longer. I will be here for you as long as you require me to," she assured him, a sincere smile on her face.

For the first time in months, Mark allowed himself to be vulnerable and admitted, "Yes, I'd like that very much." Her presence brought a renewed optimism that had eluded him for a long time.

"By the way, it would be best if we keep this between us for now. Elizabeth would overreact if she found out you knew," he suggested.

"Your sister scares the shit out of me. I have no interest in telling her anything," Isabella responded with a laugh. Despite being family, Mark admitted he still felt uneasy around Elizabeth at times.

At that moment, with the weight of his secret shared, Mark felt a connection with Isabella that transcended the roles of employer and employee. Her genuine concern and willingness to understand his struggles were a glimmer of hope in the darkness that had enveloped his life since the illness began.

Mark sensed a renewed determination within himself. He wasn't ready to surrender to the sickness that haunted him. There was a spark of defiance, a silent promise to fight, and maybe, just maybe, find a way to overcome this challenge.

And as he looked at Isabella, the thought crossed his mind – perhaps, once this battle was fought and won, he would confront the unexplainable emotions he harbored for her.