Page 39 of The Secretary Volume II

A wet, peeling sound.

I gag—can’t stop it—choking on air that won’t stay in my lungs.My throat locks up.

I try to scream.

No sound comes out.

Then—nothing.Darkness.

21

Gillian

Iwake up in my apartment—not Ellis’s bedroom, not the clinical room where I was strapped down, just here.My bed, my sheets, my familiar walls.

My head pounds like a hangover, minus the night of questionable decisions.Well—minus the fun, for sure.I blink slowly, forcing my vision to focus, but everything blurs, like I’m looking through dirty water.My lashes brush stiff bandages.Weak morning light filters through, casting a pale, blurry glow.

I carefully peel the gauze away, fingertips trembling, and fumble for the dark sunglasses conveniently left beside my phone.The room sharpens painfully, bright edges slicing through my vision before settling into manageable shapes.

After that—just flashes.Bright lights.Sharp, metallic noises.A voice calmly assuring me,“You won’t remember this part.”

And I didn’t.Not fully, anyway.But my body remembers enough.Enough to make my armpits sweat and my mouth go dry.

My phone buzzes from somewhere on the nightstand.I reach for it slowly, eyes stinging, even behind the dark lenses.The screen glows too brightly, and the voicemail notification lingers, taunting me.I open it, and Ellis’s voice cuts through the haze, too smooth, too familiar.

“Last night was perfect.See you at the office.”

I stifle a bitter laugh.The words sit heavily in my chest—perfect, like this was a romantic getaway instead of a violation dressed up as medical necessity.I hate it when he acts as if he doesn’t know exactly what he’s doing.

The room spins with nauseating slowness as I push myself up from the bed.My stomach lurches, and I fight to keep from choking.I get up, dragging myself to the bathroom, my fingers scraping the wall for balance.

Under the harsh lights, I blink against the sharp, stabbing brightness.My eyes water from the sudden exposure.

The mirror doesn’t lie.

Bloodshot eyes, pupils blown out, dark bruises beneath them.I don’t recognize the person staring back at me.Her face looks hollow, haunted, like she’s been through something far worse than a simple vision correction.I don’t cry.Doing so would mean this is the worst it gets, and I know better.

I grip the sink, pressing my fingers into the cold porcelain, but it’s like everything’s bending.My reflection warps.

I close my eyes hard, then open them, trying to bring things into focus.

There’s a note— crumpled, worn.I don’t remember leaving it here, but there it is tucked between my toothbrush and my moisturizer.Panic claws at my throat.

I unfold it, and feel sick as I read my own handwriting:

Don’t trust them.Don’t trust him.Don’t forget.

The words settle like lead in my chest.I press my back to the cold bathroom wall, struggling to slow my breath.Fear, confusion—it’s too much, too fast.

My phone buzzes again, somewhere in the living room.I stumble out of the bathroom, moving toward the sound.I grope blindly, fingers sliding across the coffee table, knocking something to the floor.When I finally locate it, I squint painfully at the screen, blinking rapidly to clear the fuzzy shapes into letters.

It’s a text from an unknown number.

Rest up.Mr.Harrison expects a swift recovery.See you Monday.

Of course.Mr.Harrison.A part of me hoped it would be him checking in again, but the message is too cold, too corporate.Andra, probably.Or Stewy, masking awkwardness with detached professionalism.

I let my head fall back against the couch, and take a couple of deep breaths.Monday.That gives me time.Time to let the dizziness pass, time to try and piece together the missing fragments.