Page 45 of Under His Control
TAYLOR
Years prior…
The exam room is cold.
I sit perched on the edge of the exam table, gown tied awkwardly in the back, paper crinkling beneath me every time I shift. My stomach still aches—a dull and persistent pain, radiating in sharp little waves—but now nerves are layering into the mix.
My phone buzzes on the counter. My brother, Chris. Again. I silence it without looking. I can’t deal with whatever crisis he’s spiraling through today.
The door opens and Dr. Hayashi steps in. He’s one of the staff physicians at the UNLV student health center.
His face is serious.
He doesn’t sit. That’s the first sign something’s wrong.
“Taylor,” he says gently, “thank you for coming in so quickly after the tests.”
“Of course,” I say, heart beginning to thud. “What’s going on?”
He exhales slowly then sits down on the stool across from me. “I’m going to be direct, okay?”
I nod, gripping the edge of the exam table, trying to prepare for whatever he’s about to tell me.
“The ultrasound and hormone panel came back,” Dr. Hayashi says gently, sliding the chart onto the counter as he pulls his stool closer. His expression is careful, measured. My heart is pounding in my chest.
“And?”
He sighs, resting his elbows on his knees. “There are some abnormalities—signs of diminished ovarian reserve. Your hormone levels are consistent with ovarian insufficiency.”
My brain fumbles to catch up. “I don’t understand. What does that mean?”
“It means your ovaries aren’t producing eggs the way they should,” he explains. “This is likely a lingering consequence of your childhood leukemia treatment. High-dose chemotherapy and full-body radiation—especially at a young age—can cause premature damage to the ovaries. In some cases, that damage worsens over time.”
A cold wave of dread crawls down my spine. “But I’ve had regular periods. Sometimes irregular, but?—”
He nods. “That can happen with this condition. Primary ovarian insufficiency, or POI, doesn’t always mean complete cessation of function, especially early on. But over time, it can lead to erratic hormone production, irregular ovulation, and eventually, infertility.”
My throat closes. “I’m only twenty.”
“I know,” he says, his voice full of compassion. “But unfortunately, this condition doesn’t pay attention to age. When chemo is involved, the ovaries are particularly vulnerable. Your scans also show multiple small cysts—likely a result of your body trying to compensate.”
“So what are you saying?” I whisper.
He meets my gaze steadily. “I’m saying that your chances of conceiving naturally are extremely low. Not impossible, but quite unlikely. I’m going to refer you to a reproductive endocrinologist who can go over options if and when you’re ready. But I want to be honest with you now—this will be a difficult path, and time may not be on your side.”
For a second, I can’t breathe. My world feels like it’s tilting on its axis. A thousand tiny dreams I hadn’t even let myself consider yet are gone before they ever had a chance.
“I know this is a lot to process,” he adds quietly. “And I’m sorry. I truly am. I’m going to give you some literature on the condition, as well as the name of the specialist I mentioned.”
I’m numb. Detached. The words land somewhere inside me like snow on stone—soft, silent, cold.
My pulse pounds in my ears. I nod because it’s all I can manage. But inside, something sinks—deep and hard—like a dream slipping out of reach before you even knew you were holding it.
Present day…
The morning after the wedding is a perfect blend of soreness and satisfaction. My body hums with the memory of him—muscles aching in a good way, skin still tingling where he touched me.
I stretch out on the pillow, limbs lazy, and smile to myself. Anatoly left me wrecked in the best possible way.
