Semua Bab My Boyfriend’s Dad Is My Gynocologist: Bab 1 - Bab 10

BethI walk out of the clinic feeling equal parts confused and… aroused.Which is not the vibe you want leaving your gynecologist’s office.The sun is too bright, the air too smugly normal, and I’m standing in the parking lot re-evaluating every life choice that led me here. Was it the nurse’s polite small talk? The paper gown? The fact that my new doctor looks like he could read me bedtime stories in that voice and I’d still find it erotic?My phone buzzes just as I’m about to spiral. Rachel.Of course. She has an uncanny sixth sense for my chaos—like a bat that only detects bad decisions.“Hey, girl, ready for lunch?” she chirps before I can even mutter a hello.“Yeah, I literally just walked out of the doctor’s office.”“Oh right, how was the new ‘lady-town’ doc? She ok?”“Well, she… is a he.”“A what?!”“I’ll tell you about it at lunch. Antonio’s in ten?”“I’ll be there in five.”Antonio’s smells like garlic, warm bread, and safety. It’s our spot—half Italian restaurant, half ther

BethWednesday, 9:06 a.m.The conference room smells like burnt coffee and panic.Our brand-new mega-client is halfway through explaining how they want a complete go-to-market campaign in half the time it takes normal people to form a thought. My pen is already three bullet points ahead, my smile is weaponized, and my calendar is quietly screaming.“Ambitious timeline,” I say pleasantly, which is marketing for Are you unwell? “We can make it work if we lock creative this week and keep approvals tight.”They nod, relieved. Meanwhile, I’m mentally Tetris-ing deliverables while praying my deodorant is doing God’s work.By 10:58, we land on milestones I can almost believe. At 11:01 I’m packing my laptop with the speed of a raccoon stealing a sandwich, because I booked my lunch break for something wildly glamorous: a second pelvic exam in the same week.Because apparently, my vagina is the overachiever now.Dr. Cole called yesterday—him, not a nurse—to say my pap was inconclusive and he wa

BethThe studio smelled like coffee, nerves, and victory.By the time I glanced at the clock, we were already behind—but barely. Which, for a Friday, counted as a miracle.Shooting started just after eleven, giving us enough time to wrangle lighting, prep the models, and let Rachel work her lens magic. She was already halfway to iconic mode, barking out commands between sips of iced espresso and scaring the interns into excellence. I loved her for it.Not to mention the fact that I’d somehow pulled this shoot together in 48 hours—venue booked, product shipped, hair and makeup confirmed—because my best friend happened to be a genius with a camera and a goddess with a clipboard.I was running on fumes but the set was humming. And we were pulling it off.“Okay, now tilt the bottle a little—yes! Light from the left,” Rachel called, crouched low behind the camera. “I want that sparkle to scream artisanal hygiene.”I adjusted a reflector, then gave her a thumbs up. She winked and clicked th

Dr. ColeThe charts are supposed to calm me.Stacked neatly on my desk, patient histories, lab slips, and scribbled notes—order in paper form. Normally I like the ritual of working through them at home, a glass of scotch at my elbow, my dog‑eared pharmacology texts within reach.Tonight, it’s not working.Because wedged between two folders is the biohazard bag.I don’t even realize it until I lift the next chart and the plastic crackles, the little red symbol staring up at me like an accusation.For a heartbeat I just sit there, staring at it.Then I peel it open.The pantyhose slide out into my hands, soft and sheer, still holding the faint shape of legs. Her legs.Elizabeth Monroe.Miss Monroe.I roll them between my fingers without thinking. The fabric is weightless, like smoke. My chest tightens.Do they still smell like her?I bring one leg to my nose, quick and almost innocent. Just a trace of perfume, soap, and something warmer I can’t quite name.My pulse stutters.I know what

Dr. ColeThe walls of the conference room were the usual blend of modern corporate chic—glass, brushed steel, and just enough accent lighting to suggest innovation without warmth. I’d already tuned out most of the artwork, focused instead on the numbers and mockups laid out across the sleek table.The director of marketing, a man named Brian Keller, was doing his best to sell me on synergy, audience segmentation, and cross-platform visibility. All important—sure—but I wasn’t here to be dazzled by jargon. I was here to find the right team. A group who understood the brand my clinics represented. Not just clean lines and pastel logos, but trust. Discretion. Aesthetic comfort with clinical precision.“We’ve got a few high-profile health and wellness campaigns under our belt already,” Keller said, flipping to another slide on the tablet. “But I think this one deserves a personal touch. I’d like to bring in one of our senior execs—she’s our top creative, and fast. She tends to get ideas th