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Every time I mention Patrick, his fists ball up and I'm worried that he's going to punch a hole in the glass window of my office door. And frankly, I can't really afford more renovations, so I should probably cool it with the Patrick talk.
In fact, I'd like to end all of this talk. My head is pounding, and I'd really like to just kick everyone out of the club, go upstairs, lay down in the dark, and try to get some sleep.
I bite back the dread. I haven't even been back up there since it happened. Luckily, I keep a change of clothes in my office in case I spill something and need to do a quick change.
"By the way, this whole conversation isn't going to get you out of going to the hospital," he says, looking at me pointedly.
Fucker. How did he know I was thinking about that?
"I wasn't thinking that. I was thinking about—" Is there really any use lying when someone knows you are?
He waves his hand impatiently. "We can finish this later. Clock's ticking. My friend gets off his shift in half an hour. I have a friend who's working at a clinic. I figured that you wouldn't really want to go to Urgent Care." How does he understand these things about me that I've never told anyone? "And just think, after we get married, you can go to the doctor as often as you like. For Botox, a boob job..."
I know he's joking, but rage still streaks through me, probably a byproduct of everything that's happened today. I step out from behind the desk and before I realize what I'm doing, my hand makes contact with his face.
I didn't think I could slap that hard, but if I'm honest, I've probably wanted to slap him for years.
He hisses and cricks his neck before he's facing me again. I'm expecting a look of anger, but he's just smirking.
It makes me want to slap him again.
"Feel better?"
I actually do. "Yes."
"Want to do it again?"
Called it. "Yes."
He laughs. "Fine, once we get you checked out, you can slap me again."
My eyes narrow. I probably shouldn't get into a negotiation with someone who negotiates billion-dollar deals for a living. "I want to do it now."
"No deal. What do I get out of you slapping me now?
"What do you get out of taking me to the hospital?" I ask, before realizing that I'm too scared to know the answer.
"You mean making sure my fiancée is okay?" He cocks his eyebrow.
If I could, I'd reach out and slap him again, but the pounding in my head suddenly becomes a loud shriek that pierces, and then... everything turns black.
***
My head hurts.
Like someone slashed at my head with an ax.
Or maybe... slapped me so hard, I almost fainted?
The memory of Patrick hitting me breaks through the fog and I feel my body jolt awake and upright. My eyes flip open and I'm suddenly staring at Matthias.
"Hey." A single word. That's not like him. Nor is the look of worry on his face that seems to be directed at me.
"Mrs. Masters, I think it's better if you lie back down," a gentle voice says to the side of me. He's got my wrist in his hand, and a stethoscope around his neck.
But I'm definitely not at a hospital.
Unless it's a hospital that has 400 square foot rooms, king-size beds with opulent bedding, mahogany cabinets that I'm sure are hiding an 80-inch state-of-the-art TV, and views right over Central Park.
