When the Prez Chose Her, I Chose His Enemy

The Prez of the Iron Vipers MC noticed it first when he found out I'd already signed the transfer papers for the club's out-of-state charter. I'd filled out all the paperwork before I even remembered I was supposed to ask his opinion. Then there was my best friend's wedding. Every other woman at the clubhouse party brought her old man. I showed up alone. Even the hospital procedure. I booked the appointment myself. I arranged the bed myself. I handled everything myself. He'd cornered me in the clinic corridor, his voice flat with that familiar impatience. "You sick?" He'd snatched the file from my hands before I could stop him. "Give me the file. I'll arrange it." The words came out before I could stop them. "I got it covered. Thanks. Wouldn't want to bother you, Prez." The sound of my own voice—so polite, so distant—made both of us freeze. After all, half a month ago, I was still the "clingy b***h" in his eyes. The one who couldn't decide what to wear to a club run without texting him. The one who couldn't choose which bar to hit without asking for his opinion. Something had shifted. And we both knew it. I just didn't care anymore. "The procedure tomorrow?" Dr. Reynolds set down the file, his brow furrowed. He was the club's fixer—the man who handled all the Iron Vipers' medical matters when things went sideways. His office smelled like antiseptic and old whiskey, and the walls were covered with photos of patch holders from three decades of patching bullet wounds and stitching up knife slashes. "I remember Prez Cole is due back from the run soon. You could wait for him to come home and accompany you..." I shook my head. "I'd rather handle it myself." The doctor looked surprised. He'd known me for years, always seen me as the Prez's old lady who clung to him for every minor ailment—the papercuts, the headaches, the stomach cramps I'd called him about more than once. I used to be that person. Now I sat before him, composed and unreachable. He handed back the file without further argument. I was walking out of the consultation room when I ran into them in the corridor. Cole stood by the nurse's station, his black leather cut stretched across his broad shoulders, the Iron Vipers patch—a coiled viper biting its own tail—prominent on his back. A cigarette dangled from his lips, and his knuckles were scraped raw, fresh from whatever business he'd been handling. Beside him, Skyler hovered like a nervous bird, clutching a prescription bag. She wore a tiny denim vest that barely covered her ribs, her patch still a "property" tag—she hadn't earned colors yet. "Vivian." His voice carried that familiar edge of impatience. "You sick again?" He reached out and pulled the file from my hands before I could react, scanning the pages with the quick, practiced flick of a man used to reading police reports. "This ain't serious. I got club business tomorrow. Reschedule it for next week. I'll be there." I snatched the file back. "I got it covered. Thanks." The words were so polite, so distant, that both of us froze. In my attempt to retrieve the file, my elbow knocked the prescription bag from his hand. The pill box inside was clearly visible through the plastic. Levonorgestrel. Contraceptive. "It ain't what you think." His voice was clipped. "Skyler's got bad cramps. This is just for the pain." Skyler clutched the bag to her chest, her eyes wide with practiced apology. "I'm so sorry, Mrs. Cole. The Prez was coming home when I called him. I was so dizzy and scared—he was the only one I could think of. You're so lucky to be so independent," she added, her tone dripping with admiration. "I wish I could be as strong as you, so I wouldn't need to bother the Prez for every little thing." The memory surfaced, unbidden and sharp. Last month, I'd woken with cramps so bad I could barely breathe. I'd called Cole, and his voice had been flat with exhaustion. "Can't you just pop a goddamn ibuprofen? You're a grown woman. Act like one. I'm tired of you acting like a child. Be independent for once. I got a club to run." I'd cried that night. He hadn't noticed. "Just popping pills ain't gonna cut it," I said now, my voice flat. "You should have him hold you all night. Works better." Skyler's face flushed. "Mrs. Cole, I didn't mean—" "Are you still pissed about the run?" Cole cut in. "Because I didn't tell you my schedule? Don't you got your own s**t to handle, Vivian? Why you always tracking my moves?" Something inside me cracked—not loudly, but with the quiet snap of a thread that had been fraying for years. "Am I ever the priority, Cole?" The question came out louder than I'd intended. "In your list of things that matter—am I ever at the top? Or am I always the last thing you think about, the last person you bother to notice?" He looked at me, his expression unchanged. "You're not thinking straight." His voice was infuriatingly level. "I gotta go. We'll talk when I'm back." He turned and strode away, his boots echoing down the corridor, Skyler scurrying after him like a lost prospect. I stood there, clutching my file, and felt something in my chest go quiet. The old Vivian would have chased him. The old Vivian would have called him a dozen times until he answered. The old Vivian would have cried. I just turned and walked the other way.