Chapter 6 - The Weight of an Injection
The cold burn of the anti-inflammatory medication moved up my forearm like liquid ice, making my fingers tingle and go slightly numb. Dr. Vance withdrew the needle with practiced efficiency, slapping a small circular bandage over the puncture site.
"Keep the new brace locked at a forty-five-degree angle for the next forty-eight hours," Dr. Vance instructed, packing her instruments into a metal case. "No lifting anything heavier than a glass of water. If you stress that tendon before the cellular repair takes hold, you'll be looking at a surgical intervention whether you want it or not."
I exhaled a shaky breath, resting my left hand over the heavy, rigid plastic and metal casing now strapped to my right arm. It felt clumsy, foreign, and entirely obstructive. "And my job?" I asked, looking past the doctor to where Roman stood by the window, watching the city lights blur through the glass.
Roman didn't turn around immediately. He adjusted the silver watch on his left wrist, the metal catching the amber glow of the suite's overhead lamps. "Your job has changed," he said, finally turning to face me. "You are no longer carrying pitchers or clearing tables in a failing restaurant. You are working exclusively within this estate until your wrist heals and your debt to me is cleared."
"Debt?" I stood up from the examining table, my legs feeling unsteady beneath the short black skirt of my uniform. "I didn't ask you to pay Dr. Vance. I didn't ask for any of this."
"You spilled ice water over a three-thousand-dollar bespoke suit, Paige," Roman replied, his voice dangerously even as he closed the distance between us. "The floor manager was ready to throw you out onto the wet pavement with zero dollars and a ruined career. I intervened. That creates a ledger, and in my world, ledgers are balanced."
He stopped just a few feet away, tall enough that I had to tilt my head back to meet his gaze. His dark, wavy hair was slicked back without a single strand out of place, and his black suit coat was buttoned precisely. There was no anger in his eyes now—only a cool, calculating appraisal that made my skin prickle.
"What do you want me to do, then?" I asked, my voice dropping, losing its defensive edge as reality set in.
May you like
"Rest tonight," Roman said, turning toward the heavy oak door. "Tomorrow morning, my assistant will brief you on your new duties managing the estate's private correspondence. You write well, and you don't talk too much. Those are rare qualities."
He left the room without another word, the heavy door clicking shut behind him, leaving me alone with the hum of the medical equipment and the steady thrum of my own racing pulse.
