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“We can always do this at the house,” Dad offers.
I inhale a centering breath before I respond. “No, I’m not being forced to stay in the house when you said the threat is low here.” Then, we enter the building of the upscale office complex.
Reign and Elias step from the elevator, making eye contact with Dad and Fernando. “Everything’s clear, Mr. Bradford,” Reign states, and I roll my eyes. It’s like having annoying-ass older brothers.
“Thanks, guys,” Dad says as we step into the elevator they just vacated.
“Kiss asses,” I mumble under my breath, earning a chuckle from Dad.
Reign leans forward just as the door chimes, signaling we’ve reached our destination. “You’re just jealous,” he teases, and I elbow him.
“Of your ugly mug? Never,” I giggle, appreciating the momentary reprieve from my intrusive thoughts.
However, the arrival at the office door harshly reminds me how real this fucking is.
“Miss Bradford. Welcome,” the woman at the front desk greets, standing and motioning for me to head for the back. “She’s ready for you.”
Dad grabs my hand, halting me. “Do you want me to come with you?”
“I’ll be okay,” I reassure him with a soft smile, then turn and follow the receptionist to the back.
She’s all teeth and cheers as we walk down the corridor. “This must be such an exciting time! So much planning and getting things in order.”
I listen as she yammers on, and I want to be annoyed with her happiness for me, but she’s not aware of how difficult being here is. So I nod along until she seats me and tells me I’ll be seen shortly.
Once the door closes, I slump back in the chair and try to massage away the stress. “It’s not even nine in the morning, and I already want this day to be fucking over,” I grumble as the door opens.
“Ah, Miss Bradford, a pleasure to see you again. Are you ready to discuss a few things?” Dr. Janan Jaffri asks as she sits across from me.
I shift in my seat and square my shoulders.“Were you able to find out how this happened?”
Concern lines her face, and I can feel the panic growing like a creeper vine up my legs. The confidence I felt moments ago evaporates, and I start rubbing at the skin of my inner wrist.
“It’s as I suspected,” she states.
It’s one thing to suspect someone did this on purpose. It’s a whole different level to have those suspicions confirmed. My panic turns to ash as fury blazes in its place. “So, I was never given the birth control implant?” I ask for clarity. Part of me is hoping if I ask, her response will be different.
“There is no record of it,” she reiterates, and I grind my molars.
“Then what did that doctor put in my arm?” I ask through clenched teeth, trying to remember that Dr. Jaffri isn’t the cause of this.
She opens the folder on her desk and turns it to face me. “It was a fertility boost cocktail.” She points to my lab work and continues, “You see this line here? This is essentially a prenatal vitamin on steroids. You were given a super dose of Folic Acid, B12, and B6, as well as Vitamins C and D. That alone would be perplexing to give a healthy teenage girl. But the injection of Gonadotropins confirmed that there was no way they would give you a fertility drug to boost egg production with an implant. It’s counterintuitive.”
My stomach churns at that revelation, and I’m not sure if it’s because of the news she’s just relayed or because I’m fucking pregnant. I spring from my seat and bolt through the door for the bathroom down the hall. I barely reach the toilet before whatever smoothie I drank this morning empties into the porcelain bowl. All the while, one word is on repeat in my brain. Pregnant. Pregnant. Pregnant. It’s playing on a loop like an annoying nursery rhyme.
The bathroom door bursts open, but I don’t look to see who’s joined me. I already know. “I’m okay, Dad. Just give me a second.”
I hear his footsteps click against the tiled floor and the sound of a faucet turning on before he’s back at my side, helping me stand and wiping my face. “Ry, I know you’re strong and want to do this alone, but you don’t have to.”
The tears that were building in my eyes rolled down my face. Their salty taste makes my stomach lurch, but luckily, nothing threatens to come up.
“Why would someone do this, Dad?” I sob, and he pulls me into his chest. The familiar woodsy scent reminds me of him when I was little, and I would run to him when I was upset.
“I’m sorry, Ry. I wish I could’ve protected you more,” he whispers into my hair, and the trickle of tears turns into a steady stream.
The question is protected from who? My brain works overtime at the thought that my father and the other Council members had a hand in this.
Pushing from his embrace, I levy my accusation. “Was it you? Did you and this fucked up organization do this to me?”
