Before I can even fully process what he’s told me, he stands and walks out of the room, leaving me here to stare after him.Pain rips through my heart. He lost his mom because I wasn’t able to help him. And I would’ve if he asked. In a fucking heartbeat.
Keaton gently presses his hand to my cheek, guiding me to turn and press my face into the crook of his neck, and he silently holds me as I sob, mourning the family I lost.
My fingers curl into the crinkled paper covering the exam table, the coldness of it seeping into my skin, grounding me in this stark, sterile room. The smell of antiseptic hangs heavy in the air, mingling with the clamminess of my palms, as I brace myself for whatever news the doctor is about to deliver. My heart races, the rhythmic pounding echoing in my ears, drowning out the world around me. I try to focus on the framed photos hanging on the walls—diagrams of throats—but they only serve to amplify my dread.
Every tick of the clock drags out like an hour, filling the silence with reminders of what’s at stake. My thin sweater does little to keep the chill at bay; it’s as if the very atmosphere has turned against me. My chest constricts, a vice tightening around my heart. I wrap my arms around my knees, pulling them close, as if the simple gesture might protect me from whatever the doctor is going to say.
Maybe I should’ve let one of the guys come in with me. They seemed disappointed when I said no, especially after the talk wehad yesterday. But there was no way they could all come in here, and I don’t have the heart to pick only one of them. It would feel too much like choosing favorites, and I don’t have the heart to do that.
Finally, the door creaks open, and the doctor strides in, his expression carefully neutral. He holds a tablet in one hand and a set of x-rays in the other, the light from the device flickering against his face. But it’s the worry in his eyes that grips me, twisting my gut into knots. He doesn’t need to say a word for me to understand: something’s wrong.
“Ms. Lexington,” he begins, his voice steady but distant. The way he pronounces my name almost feels foreign, as if it belongs to someone else. The clinical tone separates me from the reality I’m about to face. “We usually wait a few more weeks to give this kind of diagnosis, but I know time isn’t something you have in your profession. After reviewing your tests, it’s more than likely you’ll have significant scar tissue on your vocal cords.”
The words cut through me, a blade searing through flesh. I knew this was a possibility. I had more than enough time to research the outcome of my attack. But hearing it now coming out of his mouth…
My vision narrows to the way his lips move, the distance between his mouth and my heart widening with each syllable. I feel my hand instinctively rise to my throat, fingers brushing against the skin as if I could touch the damage he describes. My breath hitches in my throat; no sound comes. The weight of what he’s saying crushes my chest. It’s like my attacker’s hands are wrapped around me again, choking off my air.
Unable to form the words I want, I reach for the tablet on my side. My fingers dance across the screen, typing out question after question, each one more desperate than the last. What does this mean for my career? How long will recovery take? Can Ieven sing again? I send them off like cries in the night, praying for answers I can accept.
I should know all these answers after two weeks of agonizing over them, but suddenly all my research is wiped from my memory. Why would I trust it anyway when I have one of the top specialists standing in front of me?
He glances down at the tablet, then back at me, his expression not softening but filled with clinical resolve. “While you can still sing, your voice will likely never be the same again. You’ll need extensive rehabilitation and voice training to adapt to this new reality.” His words echo in my mind, colliding with the dreams I’ve built around my voice, around my music.
I’ve lost my entire identity.
I nod, but it feels robotic. The gravity of his statement sinks in, heavy like lead. I wish for the numbness to wash over me, but it’s more like ice shattering against my skin, jagged shards scraping against the tender flesh of my hopes. Rehabilitation? A new singing style? The very thought is foreign, unsettling.
As he lays out the potential paths for my recovery, I struggle to absorb each word. We’re talking aboutmonths. How could my life suddenly derail so drastically?
My heart jumps into my throat as the door swings open with a force that makes me flinch. ”—dare go in there. If she wants to tell you, she will.”
There he is—Dickless, a monster sculpted from the shadows of my past, his expensive suit taut against a rage-contorted face that suggests something darker lurks beneath the surface. I barely register the sterile smell of the room or the unsettling objections of the doctor’s attempts to protect me; all I can focus on is the way the walls seem to close in, my sense of autonomy dissolving like sugar in boiling water.
How did he find out where my appointment was?
I wrap my sweater more firmly around me, trying to comfort myself. It’s like so many moments of my past, no matter what’s happening, I’m not allowed any privacy.
“What’s taking so long?” he barks, stepping into the examination room. His arm is held out, keeping a furious Nash from getting in front of him.
The doctor’s professional demeanor falters for a moment, caught off guard by his abrupt entry. I almost feel the temperature drop as the air thickens with his presence, heavy like a storm cloud ready to unleash.
The doctor fumbles, glancing from me to him, then to my other men filing into the room hot on the heels of my tormentor, clearly calculating how to navigate this sudden shift in power dynamics. “Sir, I can’t disclose any information—“
“Bullshit!” he interrupts, raising his voice, the volume crashing into the sterile walls. “I want to know how long until she can perform again! What’s the timeline for recovery?” His tone brooks no argument, and I sink further back against the exam table, a futile attempt to make myself smaller, to disappear in the wake of his fury. My pulse races, the panic rising in me like bile. Why must I always be a pawn in his twisted game? Why do I always revert to a weak state whenever he’s around? Will the trauma never heal?
Right as the thoughts pass through my mind, Keaton steps in front of me, his sticks gripped in his fist as he crosses his arms in front of him, a shield to protect me. Nash and Blake take up either side of me, while Tris and Dare close the door and stand in front of it, making sure no one else makes their way in.
We all know it’s futile to try to get the bastard to leave.
The doctor hesitates, trying to maintain some semblance of patient confidentiality despite the obvious intimidation Dickless embodies. “I’m afraid I can’t give you specifics—“
“Enough with the damn runaround,” my uncle snaps, his voice dripping with disdain. “We both know the only thing that matters is her voice. Iownthat voice. Now what’s the prognosis on my property?”
So that’s what it comes down to… I shouldn’t be surprised, it’s how he’s treated me all these years, but somehow it stings nonetheless. He’s only ever viewed me as property. Might as well have worn a dollar sign shaped filter over my face.
The doctor swallows, his expression tightening, and his eyes flick to me. I understand the pressure he’s feeling. With a nod of my head, I give him my permission to tell him, if he doesn’t, I’ll have to eventually. Might as well get it over with, my only regret will be that my men won’t hear it from me.
“There is significant scar tissue on her vocal cords, and—“
