Page 343 of The Doctors Will See You Now

And before I could add anything to the conversation, she strode away on her stilettos, her shoes click-clacking down the hallway with every power step while I sat in my desk chair completely confused.

There was no way in hell she was talking about the column I’d written for this week.

Had she run a different column of mine? Maybe one she’d saved up from a previous week or something?

I had no idea, but it only took ten seconds for me to snap out of my trance, and pull up Gossip’s website to find which columns had run. Dead center, on the very first page sat an unfamiliar article titled: Dr. Erotic or Dr. Hypnotic?

But oddly enough, my name sat in the byline. By: Harlow Paige

Have they retitled my piece? was my first thought, but then I realized my piece about assisting Scott in the ER for a day taking care of pediatric patients sure as fuck shouldn’t have been titled that.

My column had focused around the fact that, although most of the world knew him as Dr. Erotic, his patients knew him as Dr. Shepard—a talented physician who truly cared about the health and well-being of the community. Hell, I’d even gone to great lengths to get Josie and a few of the other pediatric patients we’d seen the day I’d assisted him in the ER to answer questions about Dr. Shepard—who just happened to be unanimously voted as their favorite emergency room doctor in the city, mostly because of his funny jokes and goofy smiles.

Obviously, I’d received nothing less than adorable responses. But none of my words or the patients’ answers would’ve worked with this garbage title.

Quickly, I clicked on the link and started to scan the words, and by the time I got three paragraphs in, I wanted to vomit.

The closer you get, the more he reveals, and if your answer isn’t yes, that won’t stop him. Look out, ladies. If you don’t give Dr. Erotic what he wants when he asks for it, he might just take it.

What in the ever-loving fuck is this?

I didn’t write this!

And horribly enough, those words weren’t even the worst of it. The article continued for another ten paragraphs and was riddled with accusations including insurance fraud and sexual misconduct.

Basically, it was one giant clusterfuck of horrible and the kind of article that would literally ruin someone’s life and career. And to the public, I had been the one to write it.

Oh. My. God.

Had Scott read this?

Well, he definitely isn’t answering my text messages…

My stomach fell to the floor, and my chest grew tight with anxiety. I had to do something. I didn’t know what, but I knew I couldn’t just sit here and let an article like this exist.

With shaky hands and adrenaline coursing through my veins, I grabbed my purse, hopped out of my chair, and sprinted down the hallway like a maniac—completely unconcerned with who I was railroading past.

I had to fix this. Jesus Christ, I had to fix this.

Panicked, I picked up my pace to a full-out sprint, and by the time I’d reached Stella’s office, I was gasping for air.

“I didn’t write that!” I shouted through panting breaths.

She looked up from her desk, and her brow furrowed in puzzlement.

“I didn’t write that article about Scott Shepard!”

“What?” she questioned. “What do you mean you didn’t write it?”

“I didn’t write it, Stella,” I tried to explain through the thickness in my throat. “I don’t know where that article came from, but I know those are not my words. Yes, my column was about Scott, but it wasn’t this fucking mess of horrible accusations.” I put my hands on my knees and took big, deep breaths.

With relaxed shoulders and a neutral mouth, Stella continued to sit in her chair—not reacting, not responding—and watched me have a mental breakdown. I wanted to strangle her.

“It was a goddamn personal interest story that showed what an amazing physician he is,” I yelled. “Hell, I even had cute interviews in there from his pediatric patients!”

A pregnant pause filled the space in her office, and it felt like an eternity before she finally said, “But that article came directly from your email to my email, Harlow.”

“What?” I shouted. “How is that even fucking possible?”