Nolan swallows hard. “You were right, Rorie. About the pricing. About the market. I brought it to Thatcher. Told him we were cutting corners. And you know what he said?”
I wait.
“He said if I wanted to keep my job—and every future opportunity—I’d shut up. Told me if I so much as whispered about Jackson’s bullshit, I’d be blacklisted.”
Silence folds around us again, but it’s different now. He’s not hiding. He’s exposed. Bleeding.
And I feel for him. I really do. But that’s not enough.
I level my gaze. “When are you going to speak up for yourself?”
He blinks, startled. “What?”
“When are you going to stop swallowing your tongue to protect people who don’t give a damn about you? When are you going to fight back? Not for me. Not for Chloe. For you.”
He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t move. Just stands there like the floor might split open under his feet.
I lean in. “Have you bled for your job? For Thatcher?”
“Yes.”
“Well, why not for something that fucking matters? Like integrity. Or morals.”
His jaw ticks.
I let out a short laugh. “Yeah, that’s what I thought?”
Nolan’s expression hardens. Before either of us can say anything else, the door swings open, and the doctor finally strolls in, holding a clipboard and looking vaguely unimpressed.
He slaps on a pair of latex gloves. “Alright, let’s see what we’ve got.”
The doctor starts to slowly unwrap the towel from around my knee, but the fabric sticks to the wound, pulling at the raw skin. I don’t cry out, but it hurts like hell. A strangled groan escapes me, and before I can even wrap my head around it, tears are leaking from the corners of my eyes.
In mere seconds, Nolan is by my side, his hand slipping into mine. I squeeze the absolute shit out of it, gripping like a lifeline, and to my surprise, he doesn’t pull away. He just lets me hold on, his thumb brushing over my knuckles helping me work through the pain.
The next ten minutes are a blur of prodding, poking, and instructions I only half-hear. Something about swelling, rest, and pain management. Then, he picks up a suture kit, pulling on fresh gloves.
“You’re going to need about twelve stitches,” the doctor says, matter-of-fact.
My stomach tightens, but I nod. The doctor retrieves a syringe and injects a numbing agent around the wound, the sting fierce but quick.
“Give it a minute to kick in,” he says, his voice clinical. I breathe through it, feeling the burn fade into a dull pressure.
When he starts stitching, I still feel the tug, the pull of the thread through my skin, but the sharp pain is mostly gone.
My fingers tighten around Nolan’s hand with each pull, my grip relentless. He doesn’t flinch. He keeps his grip steady, his other hand resting lightly on my arm. The numbing agent dulls the worst of it, but I still feel every knot tied off, the sensation foreign but bearable.
And then, the final humiliation.
“She needs to stay off the leg as much as possible for the next twenty-four hours,” the doctor says, scribbling something onto my chart then gesturing to a wheelchair. “Which means?—”
“No,” I say immediately.
“Yes,” he counters, already waving Nolan forward. “You’re getting a ride.”
I gape at him. “I can walk.”
Nolan, to his credit, tries to smother the smile twitching at the corner of his lips. “Doctor’s orders, Rorie.”
