Chapter 2

At exactly 6:30 the next morning, Cecily’s call came through.

"Eamon, I can't practice. My lower back is completely locked up."

Eamon’s voice carried a hint of helpless indulgence. "Cecily, you’ve been a professional ballet dancer for over a decade. You're not a rookie anymore."

Cecily gasped softly on the other end. "Would it kill you to baby me a little? You know exactly how much it hurts."

He went silent for two seconds, his tone softening. "Alright. I'll head over after my morning rounds. I’ll get my hands on you and tape you up."

Cecily immediately pushed her luck. "After you tape me, you have to stay for breakfast. And you have to help me stretch... You’re the only one who knows exactly where to press."

Eamon let out a low chuckle. "Why don't you just transfer me to your dance company as your full-time PT?"

"Sure! Do you dare? Would your wife even allow that? Wouldn't she lose her mind if she knew how you touch me?"

The bathroom door was cracked open.

I heard every single word.

He hung up the phone and looked up, freezing for a split second when his eyes met mine.

"She has pre-rehearsal jitters," he explained, his expression stiffening.

My face was completely blank. "You're very attentive."

"Maybe Dr. Drummond should apply to be her personal therapist."

He frowned, his voice dropping a warning note. "Linnea."

Before I could say another word, a sudden, violent cramp shot up from deep inside my lower abdomen.

It felt like someone had reached inside and twisted my guts into a tight knot.

I gripped the doorframe, my voice hoarse. "Let me through."

Pushing past him, I rushed into the bathroom and dropped to my knees by the toilet.

I dry-heaved, my stomach convulsing, but nothing came up.

Layers of cold sweat broke out across my forehead.

Eamon stood in the doorway. He didn’t step closer. He just looked down at me, his brows pulled together in annoyance.

"Did you skip dinner again last night?"

I gasped for air, clutching my stomach. "My stomach... it hurts."

He swept a cold glance over my pale face, his tone entirely clinical.

"Lumbar muscle strain compressing the sciatic nerve can cause referred pain. It’s completely normal for it to radiate to your lower abdomen."

"You stay up late editing videos with terrible posture. That's why you're hurting."

I froze. My fingertips turned white as I gripped the cold porcelain of the toilet bowl.

"It’s not my back."

It was like he didn’t even hear me. He pulled a tissue from the box on the counter and methodically wiped down the door handle he had just touched.

"You never speak up when you're uncomfortable. You just wait until the pain is unbearable to act all pitiful. It's exhausting."

He glanced down at his watch.

"I have to do some soft-tissue manipulation for Cecily this morning, and a joint consultation this afternoon. I'm booked solid."

"There’s some extra-strength ibuprofen in the medicine cabinet. Take two and see how you feel."

Before turning away, he added one last thing.

"Turn on the exhaust fan to clear the air. Don't leave the bathroom smelling gross."

The moment the door clicked shut, another wave of agonizing pain hit me.

I couldn't even stand up straight.

A rusty, metallic taste rose in the back of my throat as I gagged again.

I leaned against the cold tile wall, taking a long time to catch my breath.

A bitter sense of irony washed over me.

He had the endless patience to find the perfect angle to treat every single inch of Cecily's lumbar spine, but he found the sight of my pain ugly and inconvenient.

It turned out his excellent bedside manner was highly selective.

He had already grabbed his briefcase and walked out the front door without a single backward glance.

I tried to push myself up, but as I moved, a sudden, chilling dampness seeped into my underwear.

I looked down.

A single drop of bright red blood had splattered onto the pristine white bathroom tile.

I wiped the cold sweat from my face, pulled out my phone, and ordered an Uber to the hospital alone.