Chapter 2 : The Solicitor + The Stranger at Pret
1037 Words
Elise didn’t sleep.
She lay in her Camden flat with the lights off, listening to rain on the window. The GMC letter sat on her kitchen table like a knife.
Erasure. Effective immediately.
At 6am she was up. Coffee. Cold shower. She put on jeans and a jumper because scrubs felt like a lie now.
She opened her laptop. Typed: GMC appeal solicitor London.
Three names. She emailed the first one.
Priya Shah & Co. King’s Cross.
I was struck off yesterday. No evidence. I can’t pay. Please.
Send.
She didn’t expect an answer.
Her phone rang at 9:12am. Unknown number.
“Dr. Hart?” A woman’s voice. Sharp. London. “Priya Shah. I got your email.”
Elise sat up. “You did?”
“I did. Meet me. 2pm. King’s Cross. No fee today.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t like bullies,” Priya said. “See you at 2.”
---
King’s Cross at 2pm was chaos. Suitcases. Announcements. Rain.
Priya’s office was small. Files everywhere. No small talk.
“Right,” Priya said. “You said no to a powerful man. He used his money. The GMC protected him. That’s the playbook.”
Elise nodded. Her mouth was dry.
“So we change the game,” Priya said. “We find proof he’s done this before. Or we make him slip up.”
“How long will that take?”
“Months. Maybe,” Priya said. “But we start today. I’m pulling donor records from St. Thomas’, Royal Free, UCLH. If your name isn’t the first one...”
She didn’t finish. She didn’t have to.
Elise felt something she hadn’t felt in 24 hours. A spark.
“What do you need from me?” she asked.
“Your timeline. Every meeting. Every email. Every time he looked at you like you were a deal, not a doctor.”
Elise nodded. She had a notebook in her bag.
“Good,” Priya said. “Leave it with me. And don’t talk to anyone. Not the press. Not your family. Not yet.”
Elise stood. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” Priya said. “Thank me when we win.”
---
Elise left at 4pm. Head full.
She stopped at a Pret on Euston Road. Just to sit. Just to be around people and not feel erased.
She ordered tea she wouldn’t drink.
“Is this seat taken?”
She looked up.
A guy. Mid-20s. Black hoodie. Wet hair. Book under his arm. No suit. No watch. Just normal.
“No,” she said.
He sat. Not too close. Opened his book.
Silence.
Elise stared at her tea. Her hands were cold.
“You look like you’ve had a day,” he said, without looking up.
She almost laughed. “That obvious?”
“Only because I’ve had one too,” he said.
She glanced at him. Dark eyes. Tired, but kind.
“I’m Elise,” she said.
“Leo.”
He didn’t ask what she did. Didn’t ask why she looked wrecked.
He pushed a sugar packet toward her. “You didn’t put sugar in. You might need it.”
She did. She hadn’t noticed.
“Thanks,” she said.
He nodded and went back to his book.
Ten minutes passed. The shop was warm. The rain was loud on the glass.
“I’m supposed to be working,” she said, lying.
“Then pretend to,” he said. “I’m not leaving.”
She looked at him again. “Why are you here?”
“Because it’s quiet,” he said. “And because my mum used to bring me here.”
She waited.
“She died last year,” he said. “Cancer. This was our spot.”
“I’m sorry,” Elise said. And meant it.
“Yeah,” he said. “Me too.”
That was it. No more questions. No pity.
She exhaled. For the first time since the hearing, her chest didn’t feel tight.
“My sister keeps texting,” she said, showing her phone. Are you okay?
“What do you tell her?”
“That I’m okay,” Elise said.
“Are you?”
She looked at him. Really looked. “Closer than I was an hour ago.”
He smiled. Small. Real.
Her phone buzzed again. Maeve: Come to Birmingham this weekend. Please.
She typed: Can’t yet. Working on something.
For the first time, it felt true.
“I should go,” she said.
Leo closed his book. “Let me walk you out. It’s coming down hard.”
“I’m fine—”
She stood too fast. The room tilted for half a second. She grabbed the table.
Leo was up instantly. “Whoa. Easy.”
“I’m fine,” she said again, embarrassed.
“You don’t look it,” he said. “Let me get you a cab.”
“No. I can—”
“You can,” he said. “But let me anyway.”
She didn’t argue.
---
He put her in a black cab outside King’s Cross. Paid the driver.
“Wait till she’s inside her building,” he told the driver.
He handed her his umbrella. Plain black. No logo.
“Text the driver when you’re in,” he said. “So I know.”
She frowned. “You don’t even know me.”
“Exactly,” he said. “So if you don’t text, I’ll worry.”
She stared at him.
He stepped back into the rain. No umbrella for himself. Book under his arm.
“Go,” he said.
She did.
In the cab, she texted the driver’s phone: I’m in. Thank you.
Two minutes later, a reply from an unknown number: Good.
Just Good.
She held the phone.
She didn’t know his last name.
She didn’t know who his father was.
She didn’t know he was connected to the man who destroyed her career.
All she knew was: Leo didn’t ask her for anything.
And today, that felt rare.
At her flat, she opened her notebook.
Damian Cross. 40th floor. No witnesses. No email.
She underlined it twice.
He took her license.
He didn’t get to take this.
- Writer
