10. Cormac
Cormac
Elena takes her seat before I finish crossing the room. The soft click of the door closing behind her is the only sound echoing in the room, but it feels like everything else has gone silent. Even the lights seem dimmer now, softer, as if to better focus my attention on her.
She sits perfectly still, back straight, hands folded neatly in her lap.
There’s nothing tentative in her posture, nothing unsure.
She exudes the same quiet control she always has, but today, it’s different.
I feel the heft of the silence more sharply, the distance between us more noticeable than it’s ever been.
I move to the counter, eyes trained on her as I gather the tools for her check-up, but my thoughts are elsewhere.
They always are, whenever she’s near. I try not to acknowledge it.
I focus instead on the procedure, on the sequence of the visit, on the data I need to gather.
It’s routine, clinical. And yet, the closer I get to her, the more the air thickens.
Her gaze follows me, precise, observant. Always so controlled. She doesn’t flinch when I meet her eyes, and for a brief moment, I feel it. A flicker of something in the air. It’s not fear. It’s not submission. It's something else.
Something I don’t want to acknowledge.
My fingers falter briefly as I adjust the stethoscope. I force myself to move as normal, to maintain the immaculate order of this clinical space. But the truth is, my attention is fixed on her in a way it never has been with anyone else.
I turn back to her and step closer, my presence more immediate now.
Her gaze shifts down to the clipboard in my hands, but her attention doesn’t waver.
There’s no hesitation in her, no discomfort.
She simply exists in the moment, so calm, so poised.
But I notice the slight way her chest rises as I approach, the slight tension in the air that clings to her every move.
I hand her the form, our fingers brushing just slightly as she takes it from me. It’s a subtle touch, but it’s enough to make my pulse pick up.
“How’s it been going since I last saw you?” I ask.
“Fine,” she replies, but her tone is clipped.
I nod, taking a step back to give her space, but the distance between us doesn’t feel as safe as it used to.
It feels constricting, like the room has grown smaller, tighter.
I can hear the soft, rhythmic sound of her breathing now, more noticeable in the silence.
I feel the subtle shift in her body language, the way she holds herself.
The last few weeks have been routine. Check-ups, tests, forms filled out. And yet, in this room with her now, something feels different.
I slide the ultrasound wand over her stomach, her skin warm beneath the gel.
There’s no need to watch the monitor as closely as I do, but my eyes are fixed on it.
It’s not the images on the screen that hold my attention.
It’s the way Elena stiffens just slightly when I move closer, when the proximity between us narrows.
I see the subtle way her pulse quickens, the faintest tremor in her jaw as she suppresses whatever reaction she’s feeling.
I shouldn’t be this aware of her. But I am. Not when I’ve worked so damn hard to separate myself from anything personal. But then she shifts again, her eyes lifting to meet mine. The contact is brief, but it’s enough to send a quiet pulse of heat through me.
She doesn’t look away. Neither do I.
I move back to my notes, the pulse in my ears a steady hum as I focus on the details. I tell myself to concentrate on the task at hand. I can’t afford to get lost in this. Not when she’s so firmly within the confines of my program, my care, my control.
Still, I can’t shake the sensation that we’re both playing a game. A game where she knows exactly what she’s doing, and I don’t know whether I’m playing by her rules or my own.
I adjust the ultrasound machine, stepping out of her immediate space for a moment to regain my composure. I hate how the proximity affects me. How the stillness of her in this space seems to unravel me, piece by piece.
“Elena,” I say, my voice sharper than I intend. “How have you been managing with the schedule? The daily check-ins? The adjustments?”
“I’ve been fine,” she replies, a fraction too curt. There’s a tinge of defensiveness in her tone, but it’s buried under layers of calm. I can sense it, but I won’t let her see that I do.
I make a note. “We’re sticking to the plan, then. The increased check-ins are necessary to ensure consistency.”
I remind myself that this is all procedural. But her eyes don’t lie; they never have. And the way she holds my gaze, it feels like an invitation I know I shouldn’t accept.
Her lips press together slightly, like she’s suppressing something. Her hands stay firmly at her sides. She doesn’t fidget—she’s too composed for that. But I catch the slight twitch in her fingers, the way she holds herself just a little too still.
I’m already losing control, and I don’t know how to stop it.
“Everything is in the system,” I tell her, the words falling out before I can stop them. “It’s all organized. It’s all necessary.”
But it’s not necessary. Not all of it. Not the intensity of my oversight. Not the daily check-ins.
Not her .
It’s the only thing I can’t rationalize. Not anymore. And I know it.
I turn my attention back to the forms, trying to bury the thoughts spiraling in my mind. Elena stays still, like she’s waiting for me to speak again. I feel her awareness in every corner of the room, and it pulls my focus from where it should be.
I tell myself I’m doing this for her. This intensity, this control, this oversight. That it’s for her well-being, for the child. But deep down, I know the truth.
This is mine. All of this is mine.
And if that makes her a part of me in a way I can’t yet name? Well, that’s not a complication. That’s just the arrangement.
I finish the examination, hand her the paperwork, and watch as she leaves. There’s no hesitation, no more resistance than I would expect from any participant. She complies, as always, even if there’s that slight hardness behind her eyes, the thin veil of resistance she wraps around herself.
But she knows. She has learned by now that it’s not her choice to make. It’s always been my choice, and she’s accepted that. Whether she likes it or not, I control her existence now.
Alone in the office once more, I replay the day’s events in my mind.
My fingers hover over the papers before me, the daily reports of the program’s participants neatly filed.
I flip through them quickly, each name a line on a spreadsheet, each profile a series of numbers and charts.
Predictable, manageable. But when I reach Elena's file, my gaze lingers. I can’t help it.
It’s been nine weeks now, and every time I look at her name, I feel the same knot in my chest that’s been there since the first night she walked into my office.
My fingers trace the edges of the paper, and I let myself think about her. There’s no reason for this. She’s a participant like the others. She’s signed the contract. She’s agreed to the program, the rules, the program. She’s agreed to everything.
And yet, I’ve treated her differently. The increased monitoring. The personal oversight. I should treat her like I treat all of them. But I don’t.
I’d been careful at first. Clinical, detached, keeping everything in line with protocol.
But somewhere along the way, something changed.
I’ve adjusted the routine for her, made exceptions where I shouldn’t have.
I’ve given her more of my time, more of my attention, when I should be managing the program with the same level of impersonal professionalism I’ve always maintained.
It’s not right. But I can’t stop myself.
I push the thoughts away and return to the reports, but my mind keeps returning to her.
The way she carries herself like she’s always in control, even when we both know she’s not.
Even when I know what’s beneath the surface.
The resistance, the bitterness, the struggle.
She’s here for survival. She’s here because there’s no other option for her.
But she doesn’t say it. She doesn’t ask for pity. She simply endures.
Forcing myself to focus, I finish reviewing the files, but the distraction of her lingers. My mind suddenly travels to a week ago, when I discussed the program’s progress with colleagues. As always, the questions were posed with a clinical distance.
“How are things progressing? Is the program working?”
The question came from Dr. Harris, a colleague I respect, though his tone is too casual for my liking. He’s noticed the increased oversight with Elena. Of course he has. He’s observant. He’s sharp.
“Dr. Brennan,” he said, leaning across the table, “I’ve noticed some... deviations in your protocol this year. More intensive monitoring, especially for some of the participants. Are we sure this level of scrutiny is necessary?”
The question was phrased casually, as if was not a concern. But I could hear the underlying challenge, the suspicion. He wanted to poke at the cracks, test my decision-making, my judgment.
“Optimal outcomes require diligence,” I replied smoothly, the words leaving my mouth without hesitation. “Increased oversight ensures there are no surprises. We can’t afford unpredictability, not with these procedures. Not with the stakes so high.”
He nodded, but there was a subtle look of doubt in his eyes. But he didn’t press it. The conversation moved on, and I didn’t think about it again while I was at the conference. Not until now, alone in my office again.
And now it hits me, when it’s just me and the weight of Elena’s file.
I want her.
I’ve wanted her since that night, when Liam brought her to dinner at the restaurant. She was so different from anyone I’ve known. So poised, even then, when she hadn’t yet signed on to this program. When she was still just Liam’s girlfriend, living in a world I wasn’t part of.
But there was something in the way she held herself that night, something in the way she spoke, in the way she looked at me. It was a look that made me think she saw through the facade I worked so hard to maintain.
It was wrong. I knew that. I knew it the moment I looked at her and thought about the distance between us, about the things I wanted to say.
About the things I wanted to do. It was wrong, and yet I couldn’t stop thinking about her, even after Liam left.
Even after he walked away from her without a second thought.
He left her behind, and I stayed. Because it was the only thing I could control. The only thing left.
And now she’s carrying my child. She’s in my care. She’s mine, in a way that no one else has ever been. She’s not Liam’s anymore. She’s my participant. Under my roof, under my rules, under my supervision.
She signed up for this. She chose it. And if that means I’m giving her everything she needs, she’s getting what she signed up for.
But there’s more, and I know it. I’m giving her everything, yes. But I’m also taking from her. I’m using this program to possess her, to bind her to me, and I’m rationalizing it as her choice.
I’ve wanted her from the moment I laid eyes on her. And I’ve never told anyone. Not even myself. But now it’s impossible to ignore. It’s too clear. Too obvious.
And if that means I’m giving her everything she needs, then I am also taking everything from her, piece by piece, until she has no choice but to submit to it.
She chose this. She chose me.
I exhale slowly, my fingers drumming on the edge of the desk as the weight of that realization settles. She doesn’t get to have freedom. Not here. Not now. She’s in my world now. And she will stay there.
No more questions.
No more options.
She’s mine.