Stop.
Don’t think like that.
I inhale slow, deep breaths trying to regulate my erratic heart as we pull up outside the clinic in Blackrock at twelve-forty. Nico squeezes my shoulder before I step out. ‘Want me to come in with you?’ he murmurs.
‘No, thanks.’ This is something I have to do alone. I shake my head and swallow the lump in my throat that’s threatening to choke me.
Tate escorts me inside, stands back far enough not to fuss, close enough that I can feel his presence behind me like a wall.
The red-headed receptionist greets me by name and waves me through to the private waiting area reserved for the family.
It’s quiet—eerily quiet. Like the calm before the storm.
My focus falls to the fancy coffee machine, and I scowl, sinking into one of the plush duck egg coloured armchairs. Whoever decided green was a relaxing colour for a waiting room was full of shit. My hands clasp together so tightly my knuckles ache and the tips of my fingers turn white. My foot is tapping so hard, and I’m twitching like I’m wired to a live current.
I glance at my watch, a diamond encrusted Rolex gifted to me by my parents on my twenty-first birthday. The seconds slip by agonisingly slowly, yet when I hear Dr Tessa call my name, it suddenly feels too fast.
‘Zara?’
My eyes snap up. She stands in the doorway—calm, competent, and bright-eyed. She takes one look at my face and softens. ‘Come on in, darling,’ she says. ‘Let’s get you sorted.’
My stomach drops.
The kindness in her tone makes me want to cry. ‘Thank you, Doctor.’
I stand and follow her into her office. It’s exactly as I remember it—an immaculate mix of clinical and cosy. The walls are a soft warm grey. The sun slants in through slatted blinds covering sash windows. A subtle lavender diffuser hums from the corner of the room. Her doctorate anddiplomas line one wall in neat black frames. The examination bed is covered in crisp white paper that crackles when she pats, motioning for me to sit.
It should make me feel safe.
Instead, it makes me feel sick.
‘Have a seat,’ Dr Tessa says gently, pulling her chair closer to the bed so we’re face-to-face. She offers me a professional smile as her eyes dart over my white-knuckled fingers entwined on my lap. ‘Tell me what’s wrong, Zara.’
The urge to cry hits me so hard it’s humiliating. I swallow it down and force a breath.
‘I’m… not sure,’ I admit. ‘I haven’t been feeling great since I was in Paris in February.’
Her brows lift slightly. ‘That was over two months ago.’
‘Yeah.’ I nod, staring at a tiny scuff mark on the floor to avoid her eyes. ‘It started small. I just felt… off. Tired. Like I couldn’t get my energy back after the trip.’
‘Are you sleeping?’ She inclines her head, thoughtfully.
‘It takes me ages to fall asleep, and then when I finally do, I wake up exhausted.’
She nods and reaches for her tablet. I glimpse my name and notes from my last appointment. ‘How’s your appetite?’
I wince. ‘Weird. Some days I’m starving. Other days, I can’t look at food. And coffee—God—coffee tastes like actual poison lately. I’m sure it’s nothing,’ I rush out. ‘Probably iron. Or stress. My schedule’s insane. And I had that faint spell during a Cosmopolitan photo shoot—maybe I’m just burned out?’
‘Okay.’ She nods. If she suspects my worst fear, she doesn’t voice it. ‘Any other symptoms? Just so I have the full picture.’
She taps it all onto an iPad as I speak. ‘That’s mostly it; fatigue, nausea on and off. Fatigue. I can’t shift the couple of pounds I put on in Punta Cana. In fact, if anything, I’ve only put more on. I feel bloated and uncomfortable.’
Shit, when I say it out loud, it’s not looking good.
I gesture vaguely at my face. ‘I just don’t feel like myself. Maybe it’s my thyroid?’ My suggestion sounds petty, even to my own ears.
She glances up. ‘Any palpitations?’
