Chapter 4: The Doctor's Assessment
The exam room smelled sharply of fresh bleach and warm paper. A silver tray on the rolling counter held a foil-wrapped alcohol swab, three sterile syringes, and a plastic-wrapped blood pressure cuff that hummed softly as it checked for life beneath my sleeves.
Dr. Vance was a tall man with tired eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses, his white coat crisp despite the late hour. He tapped a plastic stylus against his tablet screen, the rhythmic click-click echoing off the cinderblock walls. Valon hadn’t sat down since the doctor walked in. He stood sentinel beside the closed aluminum door, his hands jammed deep into the pockets of his dark coat, his shoulders squared against the narrow confines of the room. Every muscle in his frame was locked in a quiet, defensive tension, guarding the threshold as if he expected someone to wrench it open at any second.
"Blood pressure is ninety over sixty," Dr. Vance said, not looking up from his screen. He traced a finger down the glowing glass. "Pulse is erratic. Dehydration markers are high based on the initial triage notes from intake, and your hemoglobin is sitting right at the floor. When was the last time you ate a full meal, Mrs. Vance?"
I stared at the white linoleum floor, tracking a faint scuff mark near the metal table leg. "Yesterday. Maybe the day before. Everything's been... compressed."
"Compressed," the doctor repeated dryly. He adjusted his glasses and looked up, fixing me with a steady, clinical gaze. "You're running on empty. There’s acute bruising around your wrists and collarbone—faint, but consistent with physical restraint. And the exhaustion isn't just lack of sleep. It's physiological depletion."
I opened my mouth to offer the standard defense, the rehearsed excuse about a busy schedule and foundation galas, but the words stuck in my throat like dry cotton.
Before I could force them out, Valon stepped forward from the door. The floorboards didn't even creak beneath his heavy boots.
"She hasn't slept more than three hours a night in three weeks," Valon said, his voice low, flat, and absolute. "He kept her locked in the East Wing study during the evenings. Access to the kitchen was restricted after nine. She was drinking black coffee and whatever water she could pull from the upstairs bathroom tap."
Dr. Vance stopped tapping his stylus. His gaze shifted slowly from Valon’s hard, unblinking face back to my posture on the examination table. "Is that accurate?"
I wanted to shrink into the crinkly paper beneath me. The humiliation of having my cage measured and quantified by a stranger in a hospital gown burned hot behind my ears. "Valon," I murmured, my voice cracking on the syllable. "You don't need to—"
"I do," Valon interrupted, his tone softening just a fraction as he looked down at me, though the hardness in his jaw remained. He took another step closer, closing the distance between the door and the exam table until the scent of rain and cold wool drifted over me. "Dr. Vance needs the baseline. We aren't hiding it anymore."
The doctor let out a slow, deliberate breath, laying the tablet down on the rolling tray. He pulled a pen from his breast pocket and clicked it once. "Under normal circumstances, patients presenting with this level of systemic fatigue and psychological strain are given the option of outpatient referral with a social work follow-up. But you aren't leaving tonight, Mrs. Vance."
"We have things to handle," I protested, my hands gripping the edge of the examination table. "The paperwork—"
"The paperwork can wait," Dr. Vance said, his voice brooking no argument. "Right now, your body is failing to regulate its core functions. If you walk out of these sliding glass doors into that rain tonight, your blood pressure will bottom out before you reach the curb. I am ordering a full saline IV with electrolyte balancing, broad-spectrum vitamin infusion, and mandatory overnight observation. You will stay in room 412 under telemetry monitoring until at least eight o'clock tomorrow morning."
Valon didn't blink. He nodded once, a sharp, decisive dip of his dark, wavy head. "Do it."
"I have to arrange—" I started again, but Dr. Vance cut me off with a wave of his hand.
"Arrangements are handled. Security has been notified that this room is restricted. No visitors, no phone calls routed through the main desk." The doctor turned toward the sink, washing his hands with sharp, efficient motions under the automatic faucet. "Nurse will be in with the IV line in five minutes. Try to lie back, Mrs. Vance. You're safe here."
He dried his hands on a paper towel, tossed it into the stainless-steel bin, and slipped out into the hallway, the heavy door clicking shut behind him with a dull, final thud.
The sudden silence in the room felt heavy, almost physical. The rhythmic hum of the ceiling vent filled the space between us. Valon moved the rest of the way to the side of the exam table, his dark eyes searching my face with an intense, steady focus. He reached out slowly, giving me every opportunity to pull away, and rested his palm gently against the side of my face. His skin was warm against my chilled cheek.
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"We stay," Valon said softly, his thumb tracing the edge of my cheekbone. "Just for tonight. Let them fix the baseline, and tomorrow we finish what we started."
I leaned into his hand, closing my eyes as the last of my manufactured defenses crumbled away.
