Chapter 12
BELLE
The waiting room smelled faintly of antiseptic and stale coffee.
I sat in a molded plastic chair that was trying very hard to be ergonomic, my crutches leaning against my leg, and tried not to think about the word specialist. Across from us, a television mounted in the corner played muted daytime talk.
An older man flipped through a fishing magazine.
A woman in scrubs walked briskly past the open doorway every few minutes.
Beside me, Raphael radiated displeasure. Not loud displeasure, just that tightly coiled, controlled irritation that made him look like he was preparing to litigate the entire building. His jaw was set. His shoulders were squared. His gaze tracked every nurse who passed.
“You’re scaring the ficus,” I murmured.
“It appears overwatered,” he replied without looking at me.
I bit back a smile.
He hadn’t hesitated when I told him he didn’t need to come in with me. He hadn’t even entertained the possibility. He’d simply taken a seat beside me like this was the only logical outcome.
I had expected that to irritate me. Instead, it was . . . steadying. There was something oddly comforting about having him there, all growly and hyper-focused, like the entire medical system was about to personally answer to him if it mishandled my knee.
I shifted slightly in my chair, adjusting the angle of my leg.
The accidental contact of my thigh against his sent an unexpected zing up my spine.
I had been able to keep my physical attraction for him contained in a box.
It only ever pressed its face up against the glass, panting when his forearm muscle rippled, or his crisp dress shirt pulled over his strong bicep.
But after that kiss, as innocent as it was, my desire had houdini-ed its way out of the box.
I needed to find a way to get it back in.
“You don’t have to look like you’re preparing for battle,” I said quietly.
“I’m just making sure they do their job,” he answered.
“It’s an orthopedic clinic.”
“Yes.”
I glanced sideways at him. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
“No.”
“You absolutely are.”
“I do not enjoy incompetence.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
He finally looked at me then, eyes sharp but not unkind. There was something beneath the irritation now. Concern, maybe, or vigilance. Whatever it was, I liked it more than I should have.
Before I could sit with that realization for too long, my phone buzzed in my lap.
Dad.
My stomach tightened instantly.
“I need to take this,” I said, already pushing myself up with the crutches.
Raphael stood automatically.
“I’ll be right back,” I added quickly.
He nodded once, but his eyes followed me as I moved toward the far end of the waiting room.
“Hey, Dad,” I said softly.
“Belle,” he snapped, voice sharp and agitated. “Someone’s been in here.”
My heart dropped. Bad day. “What do you mean?”
“My room. They were in my room. They took it.”
“Took what?” I asked calmly, trying to assess the situation.
“My remote. They think I don’t notice. I notice.”
I closed my eyes briefly and leaned against the wall. “Okay,” I said gently. “Let’s breathe for a second. When did you last have it?”
“This morning. It was right here.”
“On the side table?”
“Yes.”
“And now it’s gone.”
“Yes.”
“Okay,” I said, keeping my voice even. “Remember, I put a sticker on it, a tracker.”
A pause as I pulled my phone away from my face and opened the app to make the sound on the tracker beep. I could hear him shifting around in his room.
“That little thing,” he muttered.
“The locator. I put a locator on it so no one could steal it again.”
“Oh.”
“Do you hear a beeping?”
There was silence for a moment, then faint rustling.
“Wait,” he said. “Wait.”
I smiled despite myself.
“Follow the beep, Dad.”
More rustling. A muffled thump.
“It’s in the chair,” he said finally, triumphant and slightly sheepish.
“Ah. The great remote heist solved.”
He huffed faintly, some of the anger draining out of his voice. “They shouldn’t move my things.”
“I know. That feels frustrating.”
Another pause, softer now. “You’re coming later?”
“Soon,” I said. “I promise.”
“Okay.”
“I love you.”
“Yeah, I love you, Bells,” he replied, and hung up.
I stood there for a second longer, letting my shoulders drop.
When I turned back toward the chairs, Raphael was watching me. By the time I reached him and lowered myself back into the seat, his expression had darkened.
“Who were you speaking with?” he asked, glaring at me.
It wasn’t a question so much as a demand for information.
My hackles rose immediately. I shifted in my seat, the earlier comfort evaporating under the edge in his tone. “Don’t interrogate me,” I said.
His eyes narrowed slightly. “I am not interrogating you.”
“It sounded like it.”
“You seemed upset.”
“It’s handled.”
He leaned closer, and the deep, rich tambour of his voice vibrated through me. “If something is wrong—”
“It’s my business.” The words came out sharper than I intended, but I didn’t soften them.
He opened his mouth to respond. At that exact moment, the nurse stepped into the doorway and called my name.
“Isabelle Renault?”
The sound of my name still startled me, but I didn’t hate it. I pushed myself upright.
“Renault . . . ” I muttered under my breath. I had not changed my name. He just made all the appointments under it. I should hate it. I did hate it . . . but it did have a ring to it.
Raphael stood immediately.
“I’ll come back with you,” he said.
The nurse smiled politely but shook her head. “We’ll start with just the patient.”
His expression hardened.
“It is fine,” I said, meeting his eyes.
“It would be beneficial for me to—”
“It’s fine,” I repeated.
The nurse gestured down the hallway, clearly expecting me to follow her alone. Raphael held my gaze for a long moment. Then, finally, he nodded once and sat back down.
“I will be here,” he said.
“I know.”
The words didn’t feel defensive. They felt . . . reassuring. I adjusted the crutches and followed the nurse down the hallway, aware of his eyes on my back until I turned the corner.
And despite everything, the injury, the paperwork, the marriage that still felt unreal, I carried one unexpected truth with me into that exam room. I didn’t feel alone. Not anymore.
The hallway to the exam rooms felt longer than it should.
Too bright. Too clean. Too quiet in that artificial way that the clack of the crutches amplified.
By the time I maneuvered into the small exam room and got myself onto the crinkly paper-covered table, I found myself wishing that I’d let Raphael come back.
Not because I couldn’t handle this. I could. I always could.
But doctors have a way of looking at you like you are a problem. Especially when you’re a bigger girl with a joint injury. I was not looking forward to being asked about my diet and being told to lose weight.
I adjusted my shorts higher on my thigh so the nurse could access my knee without having to ask. The nurse was brisk but not unkind. Blood pressure cuff. Temperature. Questions about allergies. Medication history. She continued tapping away. “Do you feel safe at home?”
The question caught me off guard. It always does, the way they slip it in like it’s just another checkbox.
Do you feel safe at home? I expected the word to snag somewhere in my throat.
Instead, I pictured the bluff with the storm rolling in over the river, and the feel of the mattress beneath me last night.
The way Raphael had stood in that waiting room, like he was personally prepared to dismantle the whole system if they mishandled my knee.
I surprised myself by smiling.
“Yes,” I said honestly. “I do.”
The nurse smiled back, satisfied, and finished her notes. When she left, I sat there alone for a minute, listening to the faint hum of the building.
I thought about how strange it was that home had shifted so quickly in my mind.
There was still Long Creek. Still Dad. Still my van, technically.
But there was also a stone house on a bluff now. And a man who had paced outside my door with crutches like he was preparing for battle.
The knock at the door pulled me out of my thoughts.
The doctor entered, and he pumped a squirt of hand sanitizer onto his hand.
Rubbing it in, he sat down on the stool and looked at the computer screen.
He was older, gray at the temples, glasses sliding slightly down his nose. He didn’t look up immediately.
Then, “Hello, I’m Dr. Olgesby. How are you doing today, Mrs. Renault?”
Is it weird that I like being called that? That’s weird, right?
“Besides this,” I said, gesturing to my swollen, discolored knee, “I’m right as rain.”
“So,” he said, “what happened?”
“Roller derby,” I answered.
There it was. The moment. I braced for it. Being told it was a dangerous sport, or being told I was too fat. Either way, I braced.
He looked up at me then. Really looked.
“How long ago?” he asked.
“Saturday night.”
“Any popping sensation?”
“Yes.”
“Immediate swelling?”
“Yes.”
He nodded, stepping closer to examine the knee.
“Okay. Let’s take a look.”
He palpated gently around the joint, testing stability, asking me to flex and extend within reason. I winced despite myself.
He didn’t comment on my weight. He didn’t make a face. He didn’t ask if I was “sure” I wanted to play a contact sport. He simply assessed.
“Given the swelling and bruising,” he said finally, straightening up, “I’m going to send you to the hospital for an MRI. We need imaging before we make any assumptions.”
My shoulders dropped a fraction. Not because an MRI was good news. But because it wasn’t judgment.
“Okay,” I said.
He gave me a brief explanation of the next steps, tapped something into his tablet, and nodded.
“You can head down there today. With the amount of swelling I’m seeing, I don’t want to delay.”
As he stepped out, I let out a slow breath.
But for the first time in this entire mess, I wasn’t calculating cost. I wasn’t wondering if I could afford the imaging. I wasn’t deciding between pain and debt.
I slid carefully off the exam table and reached for my crutches.
And as I opened the door to head back into the waiting room, I wasn’t bracing for the bill. I was bracing for Raphael’s reaction.
The doctor finished his notes and opened the exam room door for me.
Raphael was already standing the second we stepped into the hallway, like he’d been tracking footsteps. His eyes went immediately to my face.
“Well?” he asked.
“MRI,” I said. “Hospital.”
His jaw tightened, but he nodded once, already recalibrating.
The doctor stepped forward, addressing him directly. “She has significant swelling and bruising,” he said. “I’ve ordered an MRI. You can take her to the hospital, and they’ll get you all set up. We’ll know more once we have imaging.”
You.
Not me.
I felt it immediately, that subtle shift in tone. The assumption that the man in the suit must be in charge. The man must be handling the logistics. The man must be the decision-maker.
My spine straightened.
“Thank you,” I said, reaching forward and taking the paperwork directly from the doctor’s hand before Raphael could. “I’ll go down there and get it scheduled.”
The doctor blinked, just slightly.
“Oh — yes, of course,” he said.
I met his eyes evenly. “I’ll handle it.”
He glanced between us. For a brief second, I saw him recalculating the dynamic.
Raphael did not correct me. He did not interject. He did not take the paperwork. He simply stood there. I tucked the paperwork under my arm and adjusted my grip on the crutches.
“I appreciate it,” I added, in a polite but firm way.
“Of course,” the doctor replied. “We’ll be in touch.”
As he walked away, I felt the heat still buzzing under my skin.
I turned toward Raphael. He was looking at me with something I couldn’t immediately name. It wasn’t the irritation I was expecting, no . . . it was amusement.
“Do not,” I warned.
“I did nothing.”
“You were about to.”
“I was not.”
“You absolutely were.”
He tilted his head slightly, studying me.
“I allowed you to take the lead,” he said.
“Allowed . . . ” I muttered under my breath.
His mouth curved . . . not a smirk. Something softer.
I held his gaze for a second longer. That was new. He hadn’t overridden me. He hadn’t corrected the doctor. He hadn’t grabbed the paperwork out of my hand. He’d just . . . stood there. And let me.
The glower I’d been wearing faded without my permission.
He noticed.
“I prefer when you look at me like that,” he said quietly.
“Like what?”
“Like I’m not your adversary.”
The words caught in my chest. “You’re not,” I admitted.
He nodded once. “Good.”
We started toward the exit together as the automatic doors opened and sunlight spilled across the pavement.
“Wait here, I’ll pull the car around.”
As I watched him walk quickly across the parking lot, I realized something had shifted. The doctor had looked at him like he was in charge. I had corrected that. And Raphael had let me. For a man who loved control, that felt like something close to trust.