24
ROMAN
Alana wheels a rack of garment bags down the hallway beside me while Dr. Levin follows a few steps behind with his medical bag in one hand and his coat folded over his arm. The three of us make an odd procession—a stylist, a doctor, and a man who hasn't slept well in days—and Rebecca watches us pass the kitchen doorway with her hands wringing a dishtowel.
"Is she expecting you?" Rebecca asks.
"No."
"Roman, she's not going to?—"
"I know." I keep walking and Rebecca shakes her head. I can feel her disapproval following us down the hall, but she doesn't try to stop me. She knows better than anyone that Mila can't keep going the way she's been going. Besides, I need her help with things, and I don't like being ignored. She's been sick for long enough that it's concerning. I intend for my doctor to check her over and no one is going to stop me.
I knock on Mila's door and open it without waiting. When I walk in, she's sitting cross-legged on the bed in sweatpants and an oversized T-shirt, a book open in her lap and a piece of dry bread in her hand, mid-bite. Her hair is unwashed and pulled into a knot and the shadows under her eyes have deepened since the last time I saw her.
The room smells stuffy and dank with the curtains drawn, and there's a glass of water on the nightstand with her lip gloss ring on the rim. She looks up at me, then at Dr. Levin, then at Alana and the garment bags filling the doorway, and her face goes from surprise to irritation in about half a second.
"What's this?" she asks, dusting the crumbs off her book before closing it. She hastily sets it to the side next to the glass on the nightstand and slides out of bed.
"This is Dr. Levin. He's going to check you over. And this is Alana. She's here about the gala."
"Roman," she says with feigned politeness, though I hear the frustration edging her tone. "I didn't ask for a doctor. And I'm not sure what you mean about the gala."
"You didn't need to ask me for help. I know you need it." I step inside and hold the door open for the other two who walk past me into the room and make themselves comfortable. "You've been sick for over a week and you're barely eating and the gala is in seven days. So here we are." Levin and Alana start setting up, following my orders, because they know what's good for them. They'll do as I ask regardless of how Mila feels.
"I don’t need?—"
"Sit still and let the doctor do his job," I grumble, and she bites her tongue. It's one thing I can count on from Mila, thatshe doesn’t want to embarrass herself. So long as these two are around, I hope she continues to behave herself. I just want to get to the bottom of this and find out why she's sick so we can get her back to work. I can't have a wilting flower at my gala when I present my plans to a room full of people.
Mila scowls at me before sinking back onto the edge of the bed. Alana parks the rack near the window and Dr. Levin settles on the edge of the bed beside Mila, opening his bag.
"I'm fine," she says to the doctor before he's touched her. "I really don't need anyone doting on me. It was just the flu or something."
"Let me confirm that." He's calm and unbothered and he has orders. One of the reasons I respect him so much—he does what he's told. He checks her pulse, her temperature, shines a penlight into her eyes, presses his fingers gently under her jaw to feel for swelling. Mila endures it without grumbling too much, but I see the anger in her eyes. It's an invasion to her, not a courtesy, and I'm her enemy now.
Well, so be it. She has no clue that I'd stop the world from spinning if it meant making sure she was well cared for. Maybe no one has ever stopped to care for her before, and she's not used to this. I don't think I should have to spell it out for her, though.
"Any pain?" Levin asks.
"No." Mila shies away from his penlight.
"Dizziness?"
"Sometimes," she says, shrugging.
"How often is sometimes?"
"When I stand up too fast. When I haven't eaten." Hearing that she's not eating well is discouraging. I treat my staff well, give them anything they want without exception. Mila is so much more to me now. Why does she think she can't eat?
"And when did you last eat a full meal? Not bread. A meal." Levin looks up at me questioningly, but I have no answer for him. I don't babysit her any more than any of my other staff members.
She glances at me too, and I see fear in her eyes now. "I don't remember."
"Days?" the doctor asks.
"Maybe."
He huffs and pulls a blood pressure cuff from his bag, wrapping it around her arm, and then he pumps it and watches the gauge. "Your pressure's lower than I'd like." He unwraps the cuff and packs it away and looks at her with compassion. "You need to eat, and not bread. Protein, vegetables, water. Your body's running on nothing right now… Is everything alright? Are you depressed?"
