Page 86 of Saved By the CEO

“I need to ask you something,” she says, then pauses for a moment. “Has Andrew done anything during the treatments that made you feel unsafe, pressured, or uncomfortable?”

My face heats instantly.

“No,” I say. Then, because the thought of her thinking that makes my chest twist, I say it again. “No. He hasn’t. Never.”

Dr. Shaw nods, but waits.

“That’s not—” I swallow and look down at the blanket. “It’s just very awkward.”

“I understand that your situation is complicated,” Dr. Shaw says, voice gentle. “But I also need to be very clear withyou. Complicated doesn’t change the medical reality. Without treatment, you will get sick. And if the fever is left unchecked, you are likely to die.”

I stare at her.

She continues, a little more firmly. “Last night, your fever spiked very quickly, and it reached a level that concerns me. You weren’t mildly symptomatic for hours and then gradually getting worse. According to Annie, you seemed fine when you went to bed, and a few hours later you could barely sit up.”

My fingers tighten around the cup.

“For you, skipping the scheduled treatment is not an option,” she says. “Last night happened because you reached the point where treatment was due, and you chose to avoid it.”

I close my eyes.

“That can’t happen again,” Dr. Shaw says. “If the arrangement is becoming difficult for you, we can try to make changes to make this more bearable. Whatever you need. But avoiding treatment is not an option.”

I nod once.

She stands. “I’ll check on you again soon. If your next readings look good, you can go home later this morning.”

After she leaves, my eyes don’t leave the closed door.

Andrew did try to make changes last night. He made it clinical again. It was exactly what I asked for. I asked for it to feel like nothing. And then it did.

A minute later, Annie slips back in. One look at my face, and whatever anger she was still holding onto fades. “Bad?”

“She didn’t tell me anything I didn’t already know.”

Annie sits beside me and takes my hand. She doesn’t tell me I’m an idiot. She doesn’t say she warned me. She doesn’t ask what I’m going to do now.

Thank God.

Because I don’t know. I really, really don’t know.

TWENTY-TWO

Andrew told me to take the day off, which has never happened before.

It actually feels a little criminal to lie down on the sofa in the middle of the week. Like someone from HR might kick down the door and point at me accusingly.

This was a test, Miss Michaels. You failed.

I snuggle deeper under the patchwork blanket and try not to think about what happened the night before. For a while, I just lie there and stare at the ceiling, listening to the muted sounds of traffic outside and the occasional creak from somewhere in the apartment. My body feels heavy in that strange, hollow way it does after being sick, like all my bones have been removed and replaced with wet sand.

Eventually, I turn on the TV, trying to find something to occupy my post-fever mind, but I’m immediately met with a news report about the stupid-ass virus that’s fucking up my whole life, so I shut it off again.

I go stand by the window and stare down at the people walking by, like a creep. Once I’m bored with that, I try to see into the apartments on the other side of the street, like amega-creep. Then I realize I probably look like I’m haunting the building, so I step away.

I try to read a book, but my head is too fried to concentrate. I try to clean, but I’m too fatigued. I try to shower, but I almost faint.

I end up on the couch again, this time with my phone in hand, watching a makeup tutorial I will never replicate, when a text comes through.