chapter 8

Sophia's POV

With a deep breath, I turned to Mr. Benjamin. "I'm ready to go, sir."

"Alright." He picked up his phone and made a quick call. Moments later, the door opened, and the man who had carried me earlier stepped in. Mr. Benjamin gestured toward me. "Carry her carefully to the car."

The man, Peter, lifted me with ease in a bridal style. His grip was firm yet gentle, and for a moment, I felt oddly weightless in his arms. My cheeks burned with embarrassment as we exited the clinic, and I tried to avoid the curious stares of passersby.

When Peter placed me into the car, I gasped. The interior was luxurious—polished leather seats, a glossy dashboard, and a faint scent of cedarwood and mint. It was the kind of car I'd only seen in movies. Peter climbed into the driver's seat, his posture straight and professional, while Mr. Benjamin settled into the seat beside me.

"Take us to the family hospital, Peter," Mr. Benjamin instructed.

Peter nodded without a word and started the car. The hum of the engine was so smooth that I barely felt the vehicle move. I glanced out the window as the city blurred past, my thoughts racing faster than the car.

After a few minutes, we arrived at the hospital. It was nothing like the crowded public hospitals I was used to. This one was sleek, modern, and spotless, with pristine white walls and glass doors that gleamed under the sunlight. Nurses in crisp uniforms moved briskly, attending to patients with an air of calm efficiency.

Peter carried me inside again, his strong arms making it seem effortless. I tried to ignore the curious glances of the staff and patients as we entered the office of Mr. Benjamin's family doctor. The doctor, a tall man with a warm smile and an air of quiet confidence, greeted us and listened attentively as Mr. Benjamin explained the situation.

"We'll need to do an X-ray to assess the damage," the doctor said, motioning for us to follow him.

Peter carried me once more, and I found myself grateful for his quiet demeanor. The X-ray room was cold, and the sterile smell of disinfectant made my nose tingle. The machine whirred softly as the technician worked quickly, positioning my leg with care. The entire process felt like an eternity, and the dull ache in my knee grew sharper with every slight movement.

Finally, we returned to the doctor's office. Peter gently placed me on a cushioned examination bed near the desk. The doctor studied the X-ray results intently, his brows furrowing in concentration. Then, he stood and approached me, his touch light as he examined my swollen knee. His hands were warm, and he moved with a care that was almost soothing, unlike the rough prodding I'd endured earlier from the school nurse.

Still, I couldn't help but notice how well-built and handsome he was. My thoughts wandered, and I found myself staring until his voice snapped me back to reality.

"Uh… this is a complicated issue," the doctor said, returning to his seat and crossing his fingers.

"So?" Mr. Benjamin asked, his brows raised in concern.

"Sophia's patella is slightly damaged—"

"Doctor, what's a patella?" Mr. Benjamin interrupted, leaning forward.

"The kneecap," the doctor explained patiently.

"Oh, I see. Please continue, but break it down so we can understand," Mr. Benjamin urged.

The doctor nodded and went on. "Her kneecap is slightly damaged, and her knee is swollen. From the X-ray results, it's a 50/50 situation. She might recover naturally with rest and physical therapy, but if there's no improvement after a month or two, we'll need to consider surgery to restore her ability to walk."

The room fell into a tense silence. I felt the weight of the doctor's words settle heavily in my chest. Surgery? The thought alone made my stomach churn.

Sensing the unease, the doctor cleared his throat. "Sophia, don't be scared. I'm very experienced, and I assure you, you're in good hands. For now, I'll prescribe some medication and recommend physical therapy three times a week. If there's no progress after a month, we'll reassess with another X-ray."

Mr. Benjamin turned to me, his expression softening. "Don't worry, Sophia. I'll handle everything. You'll get the best care and recover fully. I promise."

I nodded, too overwhelmed to speak. The thought of surgery lingered in my mind like a dark cloud, but Mr. Benjamin's reassurance brought a small measure of comfort.

"In the meantime," the doctor added, "I recommend using a wheelchair instead of crutches. It's important to avoid putting any pressure on the knee. You'll need someone to assist you, even with the smallest tasks, to ensure your leg stays completely rested."

"A wheelchair?" I asked, my voice trembling. "Why not crutches?"

"A wheelchair will allow your leg to remain relaxed and elevated," the doctor explained gently.

Mr. Benjamin stood, taking the prescription list from the doctor. "Let's get going. Thank you, doctor."

Peter carried me back to the car, and we drove to a medical supply store. Inside, I picked out the least expensive wheelchair, but Mr. Benjamin frowned and shook his head. Instead, he chose a sleek, motorized model that looked more like a luxury gadget than a medical device. My jaw dropped when I saw the receipt—$200,000.

"Sir, this is too much," I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

He waved me off. "Nothing is too much for your recovery."

Peter placed me in the wheelchair, and a store manager came over to explain how to operate it. The chair moved smoothly with the press of a button, and I couldn't help but marvel at its shiny, futuristic design.

"Thank you, sir," I said, looking up at Mr. Benjamin with gratitude.

He nodded but said nothing as we left the store. Once in the car, I leaned against the window, a small smile tugging at my lips. For the first time in weeks, I felt a glimmer of hope. My mom wouldn't have to worry about the cost of my treatment. Mr. Benjamin had taken on that burden, and for that, I was deeply grateful.

"Sophia, where do you live?" Mr. Benjamin asked, breaking the silence.

"Huh?" His question caught me off guard, and I stammered. "Why do you want to know my address?"

"To drop you off at home," he said simply, his tone laced with mild amusement.

"Oh… right. Pardon my manners, sir." I flushed with embarrassment. "I live at 30 Chris Wood Street."

"Peter, take us to 30 Chris Wood Street," Mr. Benjamin instructed.

Peter nodded silently, his stoic demeanor unchanged. I couldn't help but wonder if he ever spoke or if he chose to remain quiet out of professionalism.

As we drove through the city, I gazed out the window, feeling a mix of relief and exhaustion. For the first time in a long while, it felt like things might just be okay.