The clinic visit

The morning of her day off arrived cloaked in pale light. For once, Maya didn’t put on her apron or polish the silver; she didn’t tie her hair back with the neat ribbon Mrs. Carbone insisted on. Instead, she stood before her small mirror and braided her hair loosely, strands slipping free no matter how she tried to tame them.

Her reflection looked foreign, tired, pale, older than the girl who had walked into Lucien Santoro’s mansion months ago. There was a heaviness in her eyes now, shadows carved deep from nights of restless sleep and mornings where nausea clawed its way up her throat.

She slipped into faded jeans and a loose blouse, the kind she used to wear back home, simple clothes that felt almost like armor. Clutching her worn satchel, she left through the side gates, grateful for the brief freedom her day off provided.

But as she stepped into the bustling city, the weight didn’t lift. The streets were alive with merchants shouting their wares, children weaving between carts, the clatter of wheels over cobblestones. All of it pressed down on her, too loud, too bright. She pulled her braid forward like a shield, praying no one from the Santoro household happened upon her.

The clinic came into view at last—tucked between a bakery spilling the scent of fresh bread and a pharmacy lined with jars in its window. A modest building, unremarkable at first glance, but to Maya its glass doors loomed impossibly large.

Her pulse quickened as she reached for the handle. To step inside was to admit what she feared.

The waiting room was plain: beige walls, scuffed tiles, a row of chairs that creaked under the weight of strangers. The smell of antiseptic clung to the air, sharp and sterile, cut faintly by the bitter tang of coffee from a forgotten mug near the receptionist’s desk.

Maya filled out the form with trembling hands, pausing at the line that asked Reason for visit. She stared at it so long her vision blurred. How could she write what she feared? How could she put into words the possibility that her entire life had shifted in a single night?

Her pen scratched finally: tests, irregularities.

When the nurse called her name, she followed, each step down the hallway feeling heavier than the last. The examination was quick, routine, almost cruel in its detachment. A blood sample. A few clinical questions. A reminder to breathe deeply as the stethoscope pressed against her chest.

But to Maya, it felt like walking a razor’s edge. Every prick of the needle, every quiet note scribbled on the doctor’s chart was another step closer to the truth.

She tried to push Lucien from her mind, but he was everywhere—in the memory of heat, of whispered words, of the way he had undone her without effort. Her stomach twisted with shame and longing, a cocktail that left her lightheaded.

At last, the doctor removed her gloves, her voice calm, professional. “We’ll process your results within a few days. They’ll be sent securely to your email. Until then, take care of yourself. Rest if you can.”

Maya nodded, unable to form words. A reprieve, fragile and temporary.

The sunlight outside was blinding after the dim, sterile corridors. Maya clutched her satchel tight against her chest as though it could hold her breaking thoughts together. The scent of fresh bread from the bakery made her gag, and she stumbled, pressing a hand against her abdomen until the wave of nausea passed.

She walked quickly, weaving through the crowded streets, desperate to outrun the churning in her mind. Every step carried the same refrain: What if?

But she didn’t know that she wasn’t alone.

Across the street, Matteo leaned casually against a lamppost, a cigarette dangling idly between his fingers. He hadn’t lit it, though, it was a prop, a mask of nonchalance. His sharp eyes followed her every move, cataloguing each detail. The pallor of her skin. The hesitation in her step near the bakery. The way she clutched her satchel like a lifeline.

When she entered the clinic earlier, Matteo hadn’t followed inside. He hadn’t needed to. A quiet exchange with the receptionist, a flash of Santoro’s name like a weapon, and she had wilted instantly. The answers had come easily: a routine visit, blood tests, results pending.

Matteo dropped the unlit cigarette into the gutter, grinding it beneath his heel. His job wasn’t to guess. His job was to deliver. And the boss didn’t tolerate incomplete reports.

As Maya disappeared down the street, Matteo adjusted his jacket and fell into the flow of pedestrians, already shaping the words he would use when he told Lucien Santoro what he had seen.

By the time Maya returned to the estate, slipping back through the side gates with her braid undone by the wind, Matteo was already inside. He moved with the easy confidence of a man who belonged everywhere, his footsteps echoing against the polished marble until he reached the heavy oak doors of the study.

Lucien sat behind his desk, the late sun bleeding through the tall windows and catching the steel of his watch. His pen moved across a document, steady and controlled, but Matteo knew better than to mistake that calm for distraction.

“Report,” Lucien said, without looking up.

“She went into the city this morning,” Matteo began, hands clasped neatly behind his back. “Spent a few hours at a small clinic. Checked in under her own name. Routine tests, from what I gathered. The receptionist confirmed results will be sent to her by email. Nothing out yet.”

Lucien’s pen stilled. Slowly, he leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing as if weighing every word.

“A clinic,” he repeated, voice quiet. Dangerous.

“Yes, boss.”