Page 68 of The Wrong Promise

For fuck’s sake. “This is why the staff has sick leave. You’re not going back to work.”

“I know,” she groans out. “I don’t have the energy. Hopefully, I’ll be over it by Monday.”

After removing her shoes, I swing her legs up onto the couch and cover her legs with a blanket, fluffing the pillows behind her. “I’ll get you some meds and water.”

After setting Zara up with what she needs, I call Trent and ask him to get a doctor to my penthouse as soon as possible.

Zara eats her dinner on the sofa and then falls asleep. I’m concerned for her. Why hasn’t anyone reported this? Picking up my phone, I make a call.

“Jobe. What do I owe the honor?”

“Marcus. Have you heard of the staff falling sick on level six?”

“Gretchen mentioned today we had a number call in sick.”

“A number? They’re all sick and sharing the virus because the staff are afraid to take sick leave for fear of losing their jobs. What the fuck!”

“Youdid speak to them about work ethics.”

Dammit. This wasn’t what I’d meant. Clearly, I was so worried about the look of betrayal on Zara’s face during that meeting that I didn’t express myself properly. “Yeah. I get that this is on me. Now I’ve got to fix it. What is the work-from-home policy? What procedures does HR have in place?”

“This is not something our company offers.”

“Well, it is now. Ask Gretchen to update thePolicy and ProcedureManualand send it to HR. If anyone is contagious and capable of doing some work from home, then it needs to be an option. You do not come to work and spread a virus. We’re on the brink of a fucking endemic within our company. The staff is to take sick leave or stay home and work. Surely, everyone has work computers and has Zoom access?”

“Not everyone.”

“Then make it happen. Moving forward, we want everyone working at full capacity.” Investing in a real estate investment trust company will be profitable, but not if half the staff is sick and making bad decisions.

An hour later, my cell buzzes.

“Trent.”

“Hello, Mr. Hendricks. The doctor is downstairs.”

“Send him up. I’ll wait by the elevator.”

I greet him at the entrance to my penthouse.

He nods. “I’m Dr. Edwards. I’m here to see Zara Hart.”

“Thank you for visiting. Zara has come home from work unwell. She has a temperature and sore throat.” He gives me a look as though I’m overreacting. I’m not.

“Hi,” she rasps when he walks in.

“Hello, Zara, I’m Dr. Edwards. May I check your vitals?” She nods, and he takes her temperature and blood pressure and checks her pulse. “I’m going to listen to your chest.” I head into the bedroom to get my wallet and hear him ask a series of questions. “Have you been around anyone who has been sick?”

She coughs before answering. “Most people at work. It started with a colleague who caught a bug from her kids.” She lays back and closes her eyes.

“From what I hear, current pathology reports are indicating a bacterial chest infection. It is rife in childcare facilities and schools. Your work colleague could have caught it from her children. It affects adults differently.”

“I have only been in the country for three months and still adjusting.”

“Getting used to different bug strains can take time for you to build immunity. I’ll take a blood sample and send it to pathology. I’ll also write a script for antibiotics. Don’t start the antibiotics until I get the results. I’ll call you in two days to confirm.” He looks at me. “You can fill the script and have it ready,” he tells me as he slides on gloves. “I expect it to be this strain of bacteria,” he notes, preparing the needle. He looks at me again. “If it is Mycoplasma pneumoniae, it can remain in the throat for thirteen weeks. Please be mindful with your partner.”

“She’s not—” I don’t bother explaining. “I will.”

I contemplate our limitations, but I also think of the staff. I send Gretchen a text.

---