I lower my eyes. “If you think it’s for the best.”
“I do. Take your coat off and lift your dress.” I do as he asks, then shift on the seat so my back is to him. He undoes the laces, loosening the leather. Breath rushes into my lungs. Pain and relief swarm inside me, mixed with trepidation. I lift my butt and he slides the leather off my body. I push my dress down and spin to face him. Without thinking, I drop a kiss on his lips, grateful for the reprieve. His hand slides around the back of my head, and he kisses me hungrily. The car jolts to a stop, breaking us apart. I dip my head to look out of the window. We are outside of a large brownstone, a silver plaque on the wall the only hint of what it contains. The Clinic. I frown and glance at Gideon.
“Where are we?”
He smiles. “So impatient. I want you to feel as beautiful inside as you are outside.”
Like a shrink? He’s brought me to a psychiatrist who I won’t be able to tell ninety-nine percent of my issues to because they are on his payroll. What’s the point? The door jerks open and Gideon slides out before offering me his hand. I swallow. There’s a small voice in my head telling me to leap out of the opposite door and make a break for it. Nothing bad can come from a therapy appointment though, right? And Gideon won’t have me committed. Too embarrassing for him.
I step outside next to him and he nods at Montgomery. “We will be about an hour.”
Standard time for a therapy appointment. I vaguely wonder if he’s taking us to couple’s therapy. How would that work?
Honor, what do you see as the problem in your marriage?
My husband.
And the solution?
Murder.
Gideon rings the doorbell. We wait a minute, which stretches into an eternity before the door opens and a gray-haired woman, wearing cat-eye spectacles and expensive perfume, greets us.
She widens the door and nods. “Welcome Mr. Lowell, he’s in his consultation room. Last door on the left.” Okay, maybe the universe is laughing at me and we are, in fact, about to spill the beans about our relationship.
Gideon leads the way, but doesn’t release my hand. He doesn’t knock on the closed door, just walks in like he has every right. A slim guy with a full head of dark hair peppered with gray at the sides stands from behind his heavy wooden desk. He strides out and offers Gideon his hand. “Mr. Lowell, lovely to meet you in person.” He smiles at me. “Mrs. Lowell, I’m Dr. Michael Stevens.” He offers me his hand, which I shake. Then he waves us to the two high-backed leather chairs on the visitors’ side of his desk. Gideon clasps my hand again. My gaze skitters around the room, looking for the customary certificates declaring him a doctor of psychiatry. There aren’t any. Only deep blue painted walls and hundreds of books on shelves behind him. I tilt my head, trying to read some of the spines for a sign of what kind of doctor he is.
“There are a few options to discuss before the procedure. Any vaginal births?” Dr. Stevens asks.
Gideon’s hand tightens. I swallow. “No.”
“Any plans for children soon?”
“No,” Gideon answers. I can’t imagine bringing a child into this shitshow.
“General health? Any concerns? Hypertension, diabetes, any medication?”
I shake my head. “No.”
“Very good,” Dr. Stevens says with a nod. “Before we proceed, I want to take you through the risks.”
“Risks?”
“Yes.”
My gaze darts to Gideon. His baby blues ice over in warning. “Of course,” I say, like I have a fucking clue what he’s talking about.
“Risks are minimal, as I can perform it under local anesthetic, with sedation if you are nervous.”
He raises a brow at me. “No sedation.” Considering I need to be cognisant of whatever is being done here.
Dr. Stevens smiles like he’s comforting me. “There will be a small amount of bleeding and pain, not during but afterwards, some tightness which is to be expected given the nature of this procedure.” What in the fuck has Gideon brought me to have done? “We will give you a short course of antibiotics to ensure no infection and some painkillers. No sex for at least four weeks, more likely six, but at that point I’ll have brought you back for a checkup. Don’t use tampons either, or menstrual cups. Any questions?”
“I don’t have periods,” I blurt. Hoping he will expand further on why the hell those instructions are necessary.
“She has an implant,” Gideon adds.
Dr. Stevens nods. “That’s good. Did you discuss if you wanted the add-on?”
