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19

Gillian

I manage three polite bites of eggs—just enough to be convincing—and let them sit uneasily in my stomach. It feels oddly like a last meal. I’m halfway through wondering if paranoia has calories when the door chime rings softly from the hallway. I take a final glance around the room—spotless, impersonal, sterile—and move toward the exit, grabbing my purse as if it might somehow protect me from whatever comes next.

The driver stands beside the sleek black sedan, door already open, his expression neutral in that practiced way all of Ellis’s people have mastered. I slip into the backseat and feel like I’m stepping into the quiet mouth of a predator. The interior smells faintly of leather and antiseptic—luxury mixed with something colder, more clinical.

“Straight to the office?” I ask, already knowing the answer in my gut.

The driver’s gaze lifts to meet mine in the rearview mirror—polite but chillingly detached. “Not today.”

I sit back slowly, my heart kicking into a rhythm I don’t like. The car pulls away smoothly, and though I don’t know where we’re headed, I recognize the route just enough to dread it. It’s not Shergar’s headquarters or the apartment Ellis keeps in the city.

When we arrive, the building looms stark and modern, all glass and polished steel—a facade so aggressively bland it practically screams nothing to see here. No name, no branding, just an address and a cold anonymity that sends my pulse quickening.

As soon as I step out, the doors slide open automatically, and I’m greeted by yet another stranger in another gray uniform. She smiles warmly, but there’s an emptiness behind it—a practiced veneer of comfort stretched thinly over something colder, darker.

“Miss Martin,” she says pleasantly, as if we’ve known each other forever. “Right on time.”

“I think there’s been some mistake.” I glance back toward the car, nerves flaring. The driver waits calmly, watching me—as if daring me to run. As if knowing I won’t.

“No mistake,” she assures me cheerfully, like I’ve simply forgotten a scheduled haircut. “They’re ready for you now.”

They. It’s never singular. It’s always some anonymous collective behind these doors, waiting to pull the strings.

I hesitate. It feels like an elephant is sitting on my chest. The woman waits patiently, her gaze polite but firm, while my mind scrambles for a way out. I could refuse. I could argue. I could run.

Instead, I nod numbly and follow her down the pristine corridor.

The echo of my heels on the polished tile sounds too loud, too sharp, like gunshots announcing my arrival.

The room they usher me into is impeccably clean, aggressively sterile, the kind of place that drains your soul. A young nurse hands me a tablet already filled out—my name, medical history, everything important is there.

“You’re scheduled for vision correction today,” the nurse explains in a rehearsed tone, polite but utterly uninterested in any response I might have.

“I don’t—I didn’t schedule this,” I stammer, scanning the forms. My heart hammers painfully against my ribs. “My vision is fine.”

She smiles indulgently, the way adults smile at frightened children. “Mr. Harrison said you’d say that.”

Of course he did.

The nurse swipes to a different page, waiting expectantly. “Sign here, please.”

I swallow, hesitating. “But?—”

“It’s standard,” she says, cutting me off gently but firmly. “You are going to love the results, trust me. Everyone does.”

“This—this must be a mistake,” I say. “I didn’t schedule?—”

“Perhaps you don’t recall,” the doctor says. “Mr. Harrison says that was the reason for the reminder.”

My throat clenches.

“You did get the reminder, didn’t you?”

The nurse motions toward the screen.

The signature box stares back at me.

“You want to see clearly, don’t you?”

My fingers grip the tablet so tightly my knuckles ache. I think of resisting—just walking out. But even the idea feels absurd now. It was never a choice, honestly. Ellis doesn’t schedule mistakes.

The screen blurs. Pressure coils low in my gut and climbs, tight around my ribs. My nerves flicker—wet and unsteady—like bad wiring under floodlight. Not pain. Not yet. Just the kind of wrong your body feels before it understands why.

“I promise it’s really not that bad,” she says. “These forms are far more painful than anything that comes after.”

I don’t believe her.

“Ms. Martin. Please. Don’t make this difficult. We have a very full schedule. But if you want, I can get Mr. Harrison on the line…I’m sure?—”

“That won’t be necessary.”

My hand trembles as I sign. Then the tablet vanishes—snatched away like it’s evidence I shouldn’t have touched.