35. Lucia
35
LUCIA
T he nurse leads me into a small, sterile room, the air inside a chilling contrast to the waiting room. I shiver involuntarily as I settle onto the exam table, wishing I had thought to bring a jacket. My hand, wrapped in a kitchen towel, throbs persistently with a dull ache that seems to pulse in time with my heartbeat. As I sit there, the crinkle of the paper beneath me breaks the silence. I force myself to concentrate on anything other than the knot of anxiety tightening in my chest.
The nurse pulls out a tablet and glances at me over the rim of her glasses. “Can you tell me how the injury occurred, Miss Terlizzi?”
I take a deep breath and try to keep my voice steady. “I was chopping vegetables and got distracted.” Because my mafia fiancé told me his half-brother might have been stalking me. But I leave that part out.
The nurse nods, tapping the tablet screen as she records my responses. “Do you have any allergies?” she asks, her tone professional but warm.
“No,” I reply, shaking my head firmly.
“Are you currently taking any medications?” she continues, her gaze focused on the screen, awaiting my answer with the patience of someone who has asked this question countless times before.
“No,” I answer again, trying to keep the impatience out of my voice. My mind is swirling with thoughts about Kristopher being my stalker, wondering what he possibly could have gotten out of following me around and harassing me for months.
The nurse types another note, then pauses. “When was the start of your last period?”
The question jolts me from my thoughts. I frown at the nurse, my mind coming up blank. I can’t remember. “I—” I falter, feeling a flicker of unease. “I don’t know. Why does that matter?”
She gives me a polite but practiced smile. “We’ll be using local anesthesia. It’s safe for pregnant women, but we like to minimize the dose for those in their first trimester. It’s just a precaution.”
Pregnant. The word hits me like a punch to the gut. My stomach clenches painfully, and I silently curse Saverio under my breath. This is his fault. The sadistic bastard cut my birth control out without a second thought, and now I have to worry about things like periods, tampons, and getting pregnant—all these mundane concerns I’d been blissfully free from for the last year. Except you haven’t had your period , the little voice in my head says, its whisper growing louder and more insistent. A cold sweat breaks out across my skin as the implications of that simple fact begin to sink in, threatening to drown me in a sea of panic.
“I don’t know,” I reply defensively. “I was on birth control, but it was removed about a month ago.”
The nurse’s eyebrows raise slightly as she taps her nails against the tablet. “Would you like a pregnancy test? Just to be sure?”
I don’t want to think about how much an ER pregnancy test is going to cost on top of stitches. “No,” I say quickly, the word snapping out of me before I can think. The thought of taking a test here, now, in this room, feels too immediate, given the current circumstances I’m living through. I’m not ready for a blood test or a pee stick to tell me Saverio has gotten his way. “No, thank you,” I repeat, calmer this time.
Skepticism remains etched on the nurse’s features, her brow furrowed slightly as she studies me. However, she doesn’t press the issue further, seemingly content to let it go for now. Instead, she taps her tablet a few more times, her fingers moving swiftly across the screen as she inputs some final notes. “Alright, then,” she says, her tone professional but not unkind. “I’ll go fetch the doctor to take a look at that cut. Shouldn’t be too long now.” She gives me a small, reassuring smile before heading for the door.
As soon as she leaves, I exhale sharply, the breath rushing from my lungs in a shaky gust. My heart is pounding with a newfound fear: the terrifying possibility that I’m pregnant with Saverio Castiglione’s baby. The realization leaves me dizzy and nauseous.
I know this is what he’s wanted all along; I can see it in the way his eyes soften when he talks about family. And if I’m honest with myself, I know it’s what I’ve wanted for years, too, that secret dream I’ve harbored in the quiet corners of my heart. But I can’t be pregnant right now. There’s too much at stake, too many moving pieces in this dangerous game we’re playing.
The doctor comes in a few minutes later, a middle-aged woman with sharp eyes and a no-nonsense demeanor. She wastes no time pulling on gloves, unwrapping my hand, and inspecting the cut. “We’ll numb the area and get those stitches in quickly,” she says. “The cut doesn’t look too deep.”
“Thanks.” My voice sounds tight; I just want this to be over.
As the doctor preps the anesthesia, she glances at me, her tone shifting slightly. “Since you mentioned being off birth control, I’d advise you to either use alternative contraception if you don’t want to get pregnant or make sure you’re staying on top of testing if pregnancy is something you and your significant other are aiming for. It’s important to be proactive. If you’d like, I can send you home with some pamphlets regarding your family planning options.”
“I know how to use birth control,” I snap at her peevishly.
The doctor stops what she’s doing momentarily, raising an eyebrow at me. Her gaze bores into me, and when she speaks, her words are clipped. “That’s what dozens of pregnant women say when they come through here each year. For a city so well-versed in contraception, we see a lot of ‘oopsies’ in OBGYN.”
Her comment lands like a slap, and I bite back my anger, looking away as she injects the local anesthesia. A few moments later, the dull throbbing dissipates as my hand goes numb. The rest of me buzzes with frustration, fear, and something else—something I can’t quite put into words.
I stay silent while she works, the needle threading in and out of my skin as she stitches me up. I can feel her judgment hanging in the air, her words echoing in my head— dozens of pregnant women, we see a lot of ‘oopsies’. I hate the way she said it, like it was an accusation.
When the doctor is finished, she applies a bandage and steps back. “You’re all set. Keep the stitches clean, and come back in ten days to have them removed.”
I nod mutely, my throat too tight to respond. I don’t even wait for the doctor to finish giving instructions before I slide off the exam table and make my way to the waiting room.
Saverio is standing by the door, his expression unreadable. He straightens when he sees me, but I don’t say anything. I’m too wound up, too exhausted from everything he revealed and everything I now have to contemplate.
“Ready to go home?” He asks, his voice softer than usual.
I nod, feeling a strange shift in my stomach as he says the word ‘home’ . If I’m pregnant—if he got what he wanted from removing my birth control last month—my fate is sealed. I’ll be tied to Saverio for the rest of my life. And I’m not sure I’m ready for that just yet.