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But just like I would tell those terrified teenagers that the only way to know is to take a test, I need to take my own advice.
And the only one who can help me is Dr. Ferrante.
Dr. Fernando Ferrante is the estate doctor and apparently has been for years.
I only met him my second week here, when Nico finally admitted the house kept a physician on retainer and I nearly laughed in his face at the absurdity of it.
But then again, it made sense.
Maksim and Kolya keep a doctor on retainer too.
At one point, they’d wanted it to be me, but I very quickly shot them down.
I liked Dr. Ferrante the moment I met him.
He’s older with a full head of white hair and large glasses that make him look like an owl.
He’s a quiet man, but when he talks you want to listen to him.
He’s very, very good at his job and I am a little intimidated by him, if I’m being honest.
He’s never once asked me a personal question in three weeks, which in this house is practically a love language.
Sometimes he pulls me into an actual consult, just to hear another opinion, and I get to be a doctor again for twenty minutes instead of whatever else I am here.
He’s loaned me two medical journals off his own shelf, dog-eared to articles he thought I’d find interesting, and we’ve spent more than one afternoon just talking, arguing about a case, and complaining about a diagnosis some ER attending clearly missed.
He treats me like a colleague instead of a curiosity, and after three weeks of being looked at like a specimen by everyone else in this house, I respect that more than I can say.
I find him after lunch, in the small clinic room off the east wing, already packing up for the day.
He looks up when I knock on the open door frame, and his whole face lights up.
“Dr. Sokolov,” he says warmly as he sets down the folder he’s holding. “What can I do for you?”
My heart hammers. I’m not really sure what I’m going to say to him. I need a pregnancy test, do you have one? Seems a bit…blunt to say the least. I rack my brain, trying to think of something else as the seconds tick by and Dr. Ferrante looks at me with curiosity.
Think, Kat. Think!
“I banged my wrist on the playroom doorframe,” I blurt out, nearly wincing at how stupid it sounds. It’s half true. There’s an actual bruise there, from an unrelated door, but it’s still purple enough to be convincing.
Dr. Ferrante raises a bushy brow. I can almost hear him thinking and you want me to look at a bruise?
I flash him a smile that probably looks like a grimace. “It really hurts,” I protest.
Dr. Ferrante’s eyebrows move even higher, but he moves the folder out of the way and pats the exam table. “Let’s take a look.” His cool hands take my wrist in both hands, turning it over to check the range of motion. “Does that hurt?”
I force a wince. “A little.”
“Hmm.” Dr. Ferrante glances at me skeptically before he lets go of my wrist. “You’ll live.” He goes back to packing his bag. “Ice it tonight if it’s still tender and it’ll be better in a day or so. But you knew that already. So is there another, more truthful reason why you’re visiting me?”
Goddammit Fernando. I open my mouth but nothing comes out. It’s like I’m paralyzed.
He pauses with a stethoscope halfway into his bag and looks at me properly. Concern creases his features and he stops what he’s doing.
“Kat,” he says gently and I startle because he has never called me that. It’s always been Dr. Sokolov. “What’s going on?”
I stand there for a second too long, working up the courage to speak what’s at the tip of my tongue.
