Page 37 of The Secretary Volume II

They.It’s never singular.It’s always some anonymous collective behind these doors, waiting to pull the strings.

I hesitate.It feels like an elephant is sitting on my chest.The woman waits patiently, her gaze polite but firm, while my mind scrambles for a way out.I could refuse.I could argue.I could run.

Instead, I nod numbly and follow her down the pristine corridor.

The echo of my heels on the polished tile sounds too loud, too sharp, like gunshots announcing my arrival.

The room they usher me into is impeccably clean, aggressively sterile, the kind of place that drains your soul.A young nurse hands me a tablet already filled out—my name, medical history, everything important is there.

“You’re scheduled for vision correction today,” the nurse explains in a rehearsed tone, polite but utterly uninterested in any response I might have.

“I don’t—I didn’t schedule this,” I stammer, scanning the forms.My heart hammers painfully against my ribs.“My vision is fine.”

She smiles indulgently, the way adults smile at frightened children.“Mr.Harrison said you’d say that.”

Of course he did.

The nurse swipes to a different page, waiting expectantly.“Sign here, please.”

I swallow, hesitating.“But?—”

“It’s standard,” she says, cutting me off gently but firmly.“You are going to love the results, trust me.Everyone does.”

“This—this must be a mistake,” I say.“I didn’t schedule?—”

“Perhaps you don’t recall,” the doctor says.“Mr.Harrison says that was the reason for the reminder.”

My throat clenches.

“You did get the reminder, didn’t you?”

The nurse motions toward the screen.

The signature box stares back at me.

“You want to see clearly, don’t you?”

My fingers grip the tablet so tightly my knuckles ache.I think of resisting—just walking out.But even the idea feels absurd now.It was never a choice, honestly.Ellis doesn’t schedule mistakes.

The screen blurs.Pressure coils low in my gut and climbs, tight around my ribs.My nerves flicker—wet and unsteady—like bad wiring under floodlight.Not pain.Not yet.Just the kind of wrong your body feels before it understands why.

“I promise it’s really not that bad,” she says.“These forms are far more painful than anything that comes after.”

I don’t believe her.

“Ms.Martin.Please.Don’t make this difficult.We have a very full schedule.But if you want, I can get Mr.Harrison on the line…I’m sure?—”

“That won’t be necessary.”

My hand trembles as I sign.Then the tablet vanishes—snatched away like it’s evidence I shouldn’t have touched.

20

Gillian

Gentle but firm hands press down on my shoulders, guiding me into the padded chair, which tilts back as soon as I sit.No pause.No breath.Just a smooth, practiced recline, as if it’s routine.

“You’ll feel some pressure,” says a voice behind me—too casual, too rehearsed.

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