Chapter 5 - The Medical Suite
The private medical suite on the ground floor of the estate looked more like a corporate boardroom than a clinic. Brushed steel cabinets lined the walls, and a single halogen examination lamp cast a harsh, circular pool of white light over a black leather examining table. Dr. Vance, a severe-looking woman with silver-rimmed glasses and gray hair pulled back into a severe knot, stood by the counter unsealing a sterile package of gauze.
"Sit," she instructed without looking up as I hovered in the doorway.
I hesitated, casting a glance back toward the heavy oak door where the guard stood like a statue. With a quiet sigh, I crossed the room and sat on the edge of the leather table, resting my throbbing right arm on the cold surface.
Dr. Vance stepped into the light, her movements efficient and clinical. She gently unwrapped the cheap drugstore bandage, her fingers pressing into the swollen tissue around my wrist with practiced precision. I hissed through my teeth, pulling my arm back slightly.
"Hold still," she commanded softly. "The inflammation is worse than it was this morning. You've been lifting."
"I had to clear tables," I muttered, staring at the sterile instruments laid out on the stainless-steel tray.
Dr. Vance picked up a small electronic device, pressing the probe against the underside of my wrist. A faint ultrasonic hum filled the quiet room, and a grayscale image flickered on a small screen beside her. She studied it in silence for several long moments, her lips pressed into a thin, unreadable line.
"The tendon isn't just strained; it's partially torn at the sheath," she said finally, turning off the machine. "If you had waited another week to address this properly, you would have lost permanent mobility in your thumb and forefinger."
The words hit me like a physical weight, settling deep into my chest. "I couldn't afford the surgery," I said quietly, my voice cracking slightly. "The insurance company claimed it was a pre-existing condition from an old college injury."
The door behind us clicked open. Roman walked into the suite, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his trousers, his expression unreadable as he looked down at the grayscale monitor.
"Insurance companies are notoriously shortsighted," Roman said quietly, stepping closer to the examining table. "Dr. Vance, apply the proper brace and administer the anti-inflammatory injection."
May you like
"Wait—injection?" I pulled my arm back, panic flaring in my chest. "I didn't agree to an injection."
"You agreed to the terms of employment," Roman reminded me, his voice dropping into that smooth, immovable cadence that left no room for debate. "And I don't employ broken waitresses. Hold her arm, Doctor."
