Page 23 of Split

She crosses the room to set the tray down on the table, then proceeds to throw open every damn curtain, bathing the room in light. I sit up in bed, rubbing my eyes with a groan as she pours my coffee. Then I force myself to get up, lured out from the comfort of the fluffy bedding by the promise of caffeine.

Clara retrieves the chair from behind the door and drags it back over to the table, proceeding to set up my breakfast while I stretch my limbs and wander closer. Today’s breakfast is an omelet and cubed potatoes in addition to the typical baskets of fruit and pastries. I’m only interested in the coffee.

As I take my seat at the table and reach for the mug, I notice there’s something else on my breakfast tray today that hasn’t been there in the past– a little white paper bag with the top folded over. Clara ducks into my closet to select my outfit for the day before I can ask her what it is, so I proceed to investigate myself, carefully picking up the bag, opening it, and peering inside.

Dog biscuits.

I’m not sure if it’s meant as an insult, since Roman keeps referring to me as hispet, or as a gesture since he’s caught me feeding his dogs twice now. Either way, I fold the top of the bagback over with a smile, glad to have something to offer the pups that I won’t get in trouble for.

“The doctor is coming to see you this morning,” Clara informs me as she breezes out of my closet with a neat little stack of clothes in her hands, her Mary Janes clipping against the floor as she strides past me toward the bed.

“For what?” I ask, twisting at the waist to watch after her.

She places the stack on the end of the bed. “Just a checkup, I’m sure,” she murmurs as she spins back around to face me with a bland expression. “He’ll be here soon, so you might want to get dressed,” she adds curtly, looking me over. “I’ll be back for the laundry.”

Before I have a chance to question her further, she’s already halfway to the door, making a hasty exit. The latch snicks closed behind her, and I’m left alone to wonder what fresh hell awaits me with this unexpected doctors’ visit.

My mind runs wild as I gulp down my coffee, then hastily get myself ready for the day. I took a long bath before bed last night, and my hair’s still a little damp as I slip out of my pajamas and put on the clothes from the stack at the end of my bed. I’m combing my fingers through the strands to try to tame them when there’s a knock at my door, Clara reappearing with an aged man in a white coat.

“This is Doctor Hargrove,” she provides, gesturing toward the old man as he follows her into my room.

He’s short and stout, with a full head of white hair and a pair of wire-framed glasses resting on the bridge of his nose. His dark eyes are kind, crinkling at the corners as he offers me a warm smile. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Volkov,” he says, extending a hand as I approach cautiously.

I place mine in his, giving it a shake. “Likewise.”

“I’ll leave you to your exam,” Clara quips as she hastily shuffles out of the room again.

As soon as she closes the door, my eyes snap back to the doctor, narrowing in suspicion. “What’s this all about?” I ask.

“Mr. Volkov asked that I examine you,” he states, shifting his leather medical bag in front of him. “It’s just the usual tests, ma’am. I’ll be taking your vitals, drawing some blood, checking for STD’s, pregnancy…”

“He thinks I’m pregnant?!” I screech, eyes flying wide.

“It’s just standard, ma’am,” Dr. Hargrove reassures.

“Standard forwhat?”

He stares back at me, deadpan, and realization slams into me like a ton of bricks.

“How many other women has he had you examine here?” I question, my shrill tone betraying my mounting agitation over this situation.

“That’s really not for me to say, ma’am,” he replies quietly, the leather handle of his bag creaking beneath his knuckles as he adjusts his grip on it uncomfortably. “I’m just here for the exam and the testing. The sooner we get that completed, the sooner I’ll be out of your hair.”

“Fine,” I huff, folding my arms over my chest indignantly. Though rage is simmering beneath my veins, if I pitch a fit, it’ll undermine any progress I’ve made thus far. I need to play along with whatever sick game my husband is playing if I’m to have any hope of escaping him. “Let’s just get it over with, then,” I grit out.

Dr. Hargrove visibly relaxes, his shoulders sagging as some of the tension drains from his muscles. “Excellent,” he breathes, the warm smile he entered with returning to his face as he turns at the waist and gestures toward my bed. “Shall we?”

Following his directive, I stomp over to the bed, conveying my dissatisfaction with every heavy footstep against the wood floor. I sink down to sit on the edge while the doctor drags a chair over and places it in front of me. He takes a seat and openshis medical bag, pulling out a clipboard before returning his gaze to me, clicking his pen and sitting back.

Dr. Hargrove proceeds to ask me some basic information about my age, height, weight, and medical history, jotting down notes as we go. Then his questioning takes a sharp turn.

“Prior sexual partners?” he asks absently.

“One,” I answer.

“Male or female?”

“Male.” I shift my weight on the bed, frowning. “Is that information really necessary?”

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