-Sloane Pierce:
The moment Roxy’s crutches clacked softly against the polished floor and the door closed behind her and Mateo, the silence that followed felt heavier than any words could have been.
The faint hum of the air conditioning pressed against my ears. My breath was the loudest sound I could hear, along with the faint squeak of my shoes against the floor as I shifted weightlessly from one foot to the other.
I stayed where I was for a moment, unsure if I should move or not, as though the air was holding me prisoner in the aftermath of what had just happened.
My hands curled nervously against my bag strap, squeezing it as though it would anchor me to reason. But my mind wasn’t anchored at all. It was racing.
I glanced around the room almost without thinking—my eyes tracing the chaos we’d left behind during the physical therapy session. The blanket that had been tossed aside lay crumpled on the couch, the edges curled under themselves.
A pillow had slid halfway under the armchair. One of the water bottles had toppled over entirely, leaving a faint puddle that gleamed like liquid glass under the soft light.
My bag, still open on the counter, spilled over with instruments, medical files, and my stethoscope—a silent testimony to the fact that I’d been here longer than usual.
I bent down, picking up the scattered items methodically, pushing them back into their places, folding the blanket, straightening pillows.
But every movement felt mechanical, as though I was acting on autopilot while my thoughts kept drifting elsewhere.
It wasn’t just the therapy. I was thinking about what Mateo had said to Roxy.
I replayed the moment in my mind—the hurried glance between them before they stepped into the hallway, the tension that had shadowed Roxy’s face the second she was out of earshot of me.
I wasn’t certain what had passed between them, but the expression on her face when she’d turned back to me before they left was completely unlike anything she’d shown during the past four weeks of our sessions.
There was seriousness there.
And something else.
A guardedness I’d never seen in her.
I exhaled softly and shifted my attention back to my bag. My fingers moved slowly over my belongings, collecting pens, files, and instruments, packing them neatly as though each action could erase the unease building in my chest.
But the moment my hands lifted a pen, my gaze drifted to the mirror across the room.
And I found myself staring—really staring.
My reflection met my own eyes. Hair tied back in a neat ponytail, loose tendrils framing my pale face. My white coat slightly wrinkled from movement, and underneath it, the soft outline of my blouse.
My lips were bare, untouched by anything but natural color, my skin untouched by makeup aside from the faint touch of concealer. My shoulders were squared but tense.
I felt my chest tighten, and without realizing, my hand moved from the counter to my hip. It wasn’t a deliberate thought, more of an instinct. My fingers trailed slowly, as if I was memorizing my own curves—following the dip of my waist, the flare of my hips, and upward again.
My palm rested lightly, as though testing the texture of my own skin.
Then my thoughts drifted.
They drifted to her.
To Roxy.
I closed my eyes and the image came alive—her voice in the room earlier, her smirk, her hands brushing mine.
The way she’d looked at me, her gaze lingering longer than it should have, as though she was reading me like a page in a book she refused to close.
I imagined her hands again. Not mine. Hers. Soft, warm, certain. I pictured them sliding over my skin. First my waist—slow, deliberate, fingertips grazing lightly over my blouse, tracing the line of fabric that clung to my skin.
The warmth of her hands imagined there, pressing slightly harder where my fingers had rested, molding themselves to me as though memorizing every curve.
My breathing slowed and quickened at the same time.
Her hands would travel upward, stopping at the swell of my hips. I imagined the weight of her fingers tracing the curve of my body there, fingertips ghosting along the edge of my jeans. I imagined her thumb brushing across the fabric, feeling the tension of it as it stretched against my skin.
My breath hitched.
I imagined her hands moving higher, to the small dip of my waist, fingertips pressing softly there, then following the slope upward. Every motion deliberate. Every touch causing an electric pull that made me ache in ways I couldn’t name.
My hand trembled as it moved again against myself—tracking the imagined path of her touch.
Then my palm rested on my breast. I could almost feel the press of her hand over mine, the heat of her skin, the soft grip. I imagined her fingers curling slightly, fingertips brushing over my blouse, tracing patterns that no one else had ever seen. The fantasy made my knees weak.
A shiver went through me. I opened my eyes.
And my breath caught.
I wasn’t imagining anymore.
There she was.
Roxy.
Her presence was sudden but deliberate. She had stepped into the room quietly, her crutches silent against the carpet, her gaze fixed on me with that dangerous smirk I had learned to recognize.
My heart thudded so hard I thought she must hear it.
Her voice came low, almost a whisper, yet filled with certainty. "Thinking about me, Doc?"
I froze, unable to answer. My breathing felt uneven, my chest rising sharply with each inhale.
Her body shifted closer, a deliberate movement, until her warmth brushed mine. My skin seemed to tighten under the press of her presence. The air between us was thick.
She extended a hand—not to touch me directly—but just above my own, letting her fingertips hover over mine. It was enough to set my nerves alight.
My eyes fluttered shut again. The imagined sensation from before flooded back with terrifying clarity. My mind replayed her touch in slow motion—the weight of her palm, her breath warm against the back of my neck, the subtle scent of her skin mixed with perfume. My legs trembled.
And then reality bent again.
Her fingers lowered, resting on top of mine. I felt the pressure immediately—not heavy, but enough to make me flinch. I looked up into her eyes, and the smirk had widened, something unhinged in its satisfaction.
Panic surged through me. I pulled away quickly, stepping back, fumbling for my bag. My breath was uneven. My fingers tightened on my strap like a lifeline.
"I—I should go," I stammered, voice shaking despite myself.
I moved toward the door, but my hand found it locked.
I froze again.
The soft sound of her laughter reached me, low and deliberate. "Going somewhere?"
I turned slowly. There she was. Sitting on the couch with that smirk again.
One leg bent beneath her, her crutches leaning casually against the side table. Her gaze followed me all the way down my body, and I felt exposed. Vulnerable.
"I—I need to leave," I said, swallowing hard. My voice sounded too quiet, betraying the fluster I felt.
Her eyes traced over me slowly, with a weight that made me shiver. "I’ll let you leave today," she said softly. "But next time? I won’t."
My chest tightened. I swallowed, trying to keep my voice steady. "I just—"
"And you’re not leaving alone," she interrupted, pulling her phone from her lap. Her fingers moved with precision, the click of her voice commands muted but heavy with authority.
"No—" I started, but she had already begun speaking softly into her phone. My words caught in my throat.
"You’re free to go now," she said afterward, her voice carrying an edge of finality. "But don’t try to run. The gate is closed. From now on, my chauffeur will pick you up and drop you off every day."
I stared at her, bewildered. "Why?"
Her smirk deepened, her voice calm. "Because I said so."
I nodded slowly, unable to form a coherent reply. I gathered my things, my mind buzzing.
Downstairs, the chauffeur waited. His face was unreadable beneath the dark tint of his sunglasses, his posture rigid.
The moment I stepped into the car, silence fell between us, heavy and deliberate. The leather of the seat creaked beneath me, and I could hear the faint hum of the engine.
As we rolled past the iron gates of the mansion, my eyes drifted to the edges of the road.
There.
Figures.
Three men, standing in the shadows at the edge of the street. Their posture was deliberate, calculated. They weren’t loiterers. They were watching.
One of them stepped forward slightly, tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in black. His features were shadowed, but I could see the glint of sharp eyes under the brim of a cap pulled low over his forehead. His hands were tucked loosely into his jacket pockets, but there was something deliberate in the way he held himself—like a predator waiting for its mark.
The other two stood slightly behind him, shifting occasionally, scanning the road. Their faces were harder to read, but their stance was similar—alert, deliberate, calculating. Every movement was precise. Their heads turned in unison whenever the car shifted in direction.
My breath quickened. My fingers curled tightly around the strap of my bag.
The chauffeur drove steadily forward, but I couldn’t tear my eyes away. The men didn’t move. They stayed there, watching.
A chill crept over me. My pulse thundered in my ears. Something in my gut told me that whatever had just happened inside that mansion was far from over.
And I couldn’t shake the thought that the danger wasn’t in the shadows—it was waiting for me.