Chapter 9 — Vitals
1774 Words
The nausea didn’t come back as I walked out of Harlow headquarters.
That almost annoyed me.
Because part of me wanted proof—something concrete, something I could point at and say, See? I’m not imagining it. This is real. This is happening.
Instead, my body did what it always did under pressure.
It behaved.
It waited.
It saved the bill for later.
Marcus followed me into the elevator. “You handled that well.”
“I didn’t handle it,” I said, watching the numbers drop. “Ethan did.”
Marcus lifted an eyebrow. “And that doesn’t bother you?”
“It bothers me,” I admitted. “I just don’t have time to feel it.”
The elevator opened into the private garage. The air smelled like concrete and expensive gasoline.
My driver was already waiting.
“Mercer Street,” Marcus said automatically.
I shook my head. “No.”
He looked at me. “Where then?”
I hesitated—just a breath of hesitation, but enough to feel it.
“The clinic,” I said.
Marcus didn’t ask which one. He only nodded once and opened the back door for me like it was an ordinary request.
It wasn’t.
As the car pulled into traffic, my phone buzzed again.
Unknown number.
I almost ignored it.
Then it buzzed again, immediately.
I answered, voice calm. “Yes.”
“Mrs. Harlow—Elena?” a woman said, slightly cautious, like she wasn’t sure she had the right person. “This is Dr. Liao’s office. You missed your follow-up appointment.”
My throat tightened in a way I didn’t like.
“I didn’t confirm,” I said.
“We scheduled it tentatively,” she replied. “Given your last visit, the doctor would like to see you sooner rather than later.”
Last visit.
The word landed heavier than it should have.
“Is there a problem?” I asked.
There was a pause. Not dramatic. Just… professional.
“It’s not a problem,” she said carefully. “But stress can affect—”
“I’ll come in,” I cut in.
“Today?”
“Yes.”
I ended the call and stared at my reflection in the dark window.
My face didn’t look different.
But something inside me had shifted, slightly.
Not fear.
Responsibility.
The kind that doesn’t ask if you’re ready.
Marcus watched me without speaking. He didn’t try to soften it. He didn’t say comforting things.
Good.
Comfort was a luxury.
I didn’t have that right now.
—
The clinic was quiet, private, and expensive enough to feel like it had been built to hide secrets.
Soft lighting. Neutral colors. No television playing the news.
I sat with my coat still on, legs crossed, phone face-down in my lap like I was afraid it might scream.
When the nurse called my name, I stood too fast.
The room tilted for half a second.
Just half.
I steadied myself by placing a hand on the back of the chair.
No one noticed.
The nurse smiled politely, oblivious. “This way.”
In the exam room, everything smelled clean and faintly antiseptic.
A few minutes later, Dr. Liao came in, calm and efficient, tablet in hand.
“Elena,” she said, glancing at my face. “You look… tired.”
“It’s been a week,” I replied.
She gave me a look—one of those looks women give each other when they both know “a week” is not the full story.
“Let’s keep this simple,” she said, pulling on gloves. “Have you been eating?”
“Enough.”
“Sleeping?”
I almost laughed. “No.”
“Any cramping? Bleeding?”
“No.”
She studied me. “Nausea?”
“Once. Maybe twice.”
“Dizziness?”
“Brief.”
She nodded slowly, tapping notes. “Stress does that. But I want to check your vitals and run a quick scan.”
A quick scan.
The words made my stomach tighten again—not nausea this time, but something else.
Something small and tender I refused to name.
As she moved around the room, checking blood pressure, pulse, asking questions, my phone vibrated.
I didn’t look.
It vibrated again.
And again.
Dr. Liao caught my glance. “Do you want to step out?”
“No,” I said too quickly. Then softened it. “No. It can wait.”
She gave me a quiet, approving nod. “Good.”
Because whatever was happening outside these walls—stock dips, board votes, media narratives—this wasn’t a game.
This was a body. A heartbeat. A line you couldn’t negotiate with.
The scan took less than ten minutes.
The screen was angled away from me at first.
Dr. Liao’s expression stayed neutral—professional, unreadable.
Then she turned it slightly.
“Everything looks consistent with what we saw,” she said.
I exhaled slowly. “So…”
“So,” she continued, her voice gentle but firm, “you need to reduce stress.”
I almost rolled my eyes. Almost.
“Doctor,” I said, “if I could reduce stress, I wouldn’t be here.”
Her mouth twitched. “Then you need to control what you can. Sleep. Water. Food. And no—” she paused, her gaze sharp, “—no extreme emotional events.”
I swallowed.
Extreme emotional events.
Like watching your husband project a fake s*x video of you to an international livestream?
Right.
“I’ll manage it,” I said.
Dr. Liao held my gaze a moment longer.
“Managing isn’t the same as carrying,” she said quietly. “You can’t out-strategize biology.”
I didn’t respond.
Because for the first time in days, I felt something dangerously close to panic.
Not loud.
Not dramatic.
Just a cold awareness:
If I let this get out of control, I don’t only lose a war.
I lose something I haven’t even allowed myself to want yet.
Marcus met me in the hallway when I left the room. “You okay?”
I nodded. “Yes.”
A second later, I added, more honestly, “I will be.”
He didn’t push.
He just followed me back toward the exit as my phone lit up again.
This time, the caller ID wasn’t unknown.
Vivian Clarke.
I stopped walking.
Marcus glanced at me. “Want me to—”
“No,” I said. “I’ll take it.”
I answered, voice calm. “Vivian.”
Her voice was too soft. Too pleased. “Elena. I hope I’m not interrupting anything… private.”
My spine went still.
“How did you get this number?” I asked.
A small laugh. “We’ve both had access to many things, haven’t we?”
The implication was clear.
I could almost see her sitting somewhere bright and expensive, nails perfect, smile innocent.
“I heard you attended the board session,” she continued.
“I did.”
“And Ethan postponed the vote,” she said. “How… surprising.”
“Not really,” I replied. “You pushed too far.”
A pause—short, sharp.
Then Vivian’s tone cooled. “Don’t confuse a delay with a victory.”
“I’m not.”
“Good,” she said. “Because I’m not finished.”
The line went quiet for a beat, like she was letting the next words settle.
“Do you know what happens when a scandal shifts from infidelity to fraud?” she asked.
“I know exactly what you want it to be,” I said.
“It becomes searchable,” she replied. “Permanent. Employers. Banks. Visa renewals. Background checks.”
My jaw tightened.
She wasn’t threatening my feelings.
She was threatening my future.
That was Vivian’s favorite kind of weapon.
“I’m filing for an official inquiry,” she said calmly. “And when it opens, it won’t matter if you’re innocent. People don’t remember innocence. They remember headlines.”
My fingers tightened around my phone.
Marcus watched me carefully. He could hear my side, not hers.
Vivian continued, softer now, almost intimate. “And Ethan won’t be able to protect you. Not this time.”
There was a moment—small, sharp—when anger surged so hot it made my vision narrow.
Not because I was scared of Vivian.
Because I was furious she thought she could own the narrative of my life.
I forced my voice to stay even.
“File it,” I said.
Silence.
Vivian hadn’t expected that.
“You’re not worried?” she asked.
“I’m not helpless,” I replied. “And you’re not as clean as you pretend.”
Her laugh was thinner now. “You don’t have proof.”
“Not yet.”
“Ethan chose me,” Vivian said, and the satisfaction in her voice finally slipped through. “He stood on a stage and destroyed you. If you think he’ll suddenly become your ally, you’re delusional.”
The word delusional was meant to cut.
It almost did.
Not because I believed her.
Because a part of me still hated that Ethan’s choice had been so public.
So final.
“Let’s make one thing clear,” I said softly. “Ethan didn’t choose you. He chose himself.”
Another pause.
Longer.
Then Vivian’s voice turned colder than the clinic hallway.
“Then I’ll make sure he keeps choosing me,” she said. “See you soon, Elena.”
She ended the call.
Marcus exhaled slowly. “She’s escalating again.”
“Yes,” I said.
We stepped outside into late afternoon light. The city looked normal. People on sidewalks, coffee in hands, lives uninterrupted.
And yet, everything felt sharper.
Because now I wasn’t only fighting a reputation war.
I was protecting something I couldn’t afford to let them touch.
I opened my phone and typed one message to Marcus.
Full trace. Full source. Tonight.
He looked at the screen, then at me. “That fast?”
“Yes.”
“No more patient fractures,” he said quietly.
“No,” I replied. “Now we c***k bone.”
As the car pulled away from the clinic, my hand rested lightly against my abdomen—not a dramatic gesture, not a reveal.
Just… instinct.
A reminder.
A boundary.
Vivian wanted to bury me with headlines.
Ethan wanted to contain the fallout.
And I wanted one thing:
Control.
Not the kind they worshipped in boardrooms.
The kind that keeps you standing when the world tries to rewrite you.
And this time—
I wouldn’t let them.
- Writer
