9.
Rodney is in the doorway when I'm reaching for my keys.
Not leaning.
Not waiting.
Just there, blocking the exit, like he knew exactly when to come home to catch me leaving.
I haven't seen him in two days.
I don't comment on it.
The house still smells faintly like the coffee the staff brewed earlier, something floral underneath it.
"Where are you going?" he asks.
"I have an appointment," I say, slipping my purse onto my shoulder, keeping my movements unhurried. "Vivian's already—"
He closes the distance before I finish the sentence.
No warning. No pause.
His hands come up to my waist, fingers digging in just enough to anchor me there, and his mouth is on mine—abrupt, familiar, impatient. It isn't a kiss so much as a claim, wet and insistent, like he's reminding me where I belong.
My body goes stiff before my mind catches up.
"Rodney," I say into it, turning my head slightly. "Not now."
He presses harder.
The kiss deepens, sloppy and demanding, his grip tightening like resistance is something to work through, not listen to.
I push gently at his chest. Not enough to challenge him. Just enough to redirect.
"Staff's around," I say quietly.
That should be enough.
It isn't.
His hand slides up my back like he didn't hear me at all. Like my discomfort is just part of the choreography and not something that means stop.
"Rodney," I say again, sharper now. "I said—"
The slap is quick.
Not dramatic.
Not loud enough to echo.
Just sudden enough that my vision flashes white at the edges, a sharp crack of sensation that steals the air from my lungs.
I don't stagger.
I don't cry.
I don't lift my hand to my face even though every nerve in my body screams to.
I taste copper.
Behind him, someone clears their throat.
I see it in my peripheral vision—the pause, the hesitation, the brief, awful calculation.
Then their eyes drop to the floor.
Rodney exhales through his nose like I've inconvenienced him.
"Jesus," he mutters. "What's wrong with you lately?"
I keep my voice soft.
That's the trick.
"I was leaving," I say evenly. "You surprised me."
My heart is pounding, but I don't let it reach my face. I stand still, shoulders relaxed, hands loose at my sides. I don't look angry. I don't look afraid.
He studies me like he's deciding whether that answer satisfies him.
It doesn't.
"I talked to Vivian," he says, turning away like the conversation is already settled. Like my input was never part of it. "She agrees this is the right time."
My stomach tightens.
"For what?" I ask, even though my chest already knows.
He turns back to me, irritation flickering across his face like I should be keeping up better.
"A baby," he says. "It's good for my image. Stability. Family values. Especially with the first hundred days wrapping."
The room feels smaller.
My pulse starts to thud in my ears.
"A baby," I repeat carefully, like if I say it wrong it will become real faster.
"Yes." He steps closer again, crowding my space. "We'll announce it at the right time."
I swallow. My throat feels tight.
"Rodney, I don't think—"
"I tried to call and cancel your prescription," he continues, like I didn't speak. "Your doctor was cooperative."
The floor seems to tilt under my feet.
"I never told you who my—"
"She said you have an implant," he cuts in. "In your arm."
His hand clamps down on my upper arm, fingers digging in just hard enough to remind me he can. Just hard enough to hurt if I breathe wrong.
"You'll get it removed," he says calmly. "Today or tomorrow. I don't care which."
My breath comes shallow, but my face stays composed. I don't pull away. I don't argue. I don't give him anything to push against.
A baby means eighteen years.
Eighteen years even after my mother is gone.
Eighteen years of never being free.
"I think this is something we should talk about," I say quietly. "I think it deserves—"
His phone rings.
The sound cuts through the room like a blade.
He releases my arm like he's finished with it and reaches for the counter.
Before he answers, he looks at me—really looks at me—and his voice drops.
"And let me remind you," he says, low enough that no one else can hear, "since you've been getting disobedient lately—I don't like to ask twice."
Then he turns away.
"Yeah," he says into the phone, already smiling. "I'm heading to my office now."
I don't wait for dismissal.
I pick up my keys.
I keep my spine straight, my steps even, my face neutral.
I don't exhale until I'm outside, the door closed behind me, his voice muffled by walls.
Only then do my hands start to shake.
The car feels too small the moment I shut the door.
I sit there for a second with my hands on the steering wheel, keys dangling uselessly from the ignition, my pulse still skittering under my skin like it hasn't figured out where to land.
I don't check my face in the mirror.
I don't want to know.
I start the engine and pull away from the curb before I can second-guess myself, before the front door opens, before someone calls my name.
The gates slide shut behind me with a quiet finality that makes my chest ache.
I don't cry.
I focus on the road. On the rhythm of traffic. On keeping my breathing even.
In.
Out.
That's when I call Reese.
She answers on the second ring, her voice already distracted. I can hear movement in the background, phones ringing, voices overlapping.
"Hey," she says. "I'm in the middle of something—are you okay?"
"I'm driving," I say, which isn't an answer to her question at all.
There's a pause on the line. Reese knows me too well to miss it.
"What happened?"
I tighten my grip on the wheel. The city blurs past my window, familiar and suddenly foreign, like I'm seeing it through glass.
"He wants a baby," I say.
Reese exhales sharply. "What?"
"He talked to Vivian," I continue, my voice steady in a way that feels borrowed. "She thinks it's good for his image. Timing-wise."
"Naomi," Reese says carefully. "That's not—"
"He tried to cancel my birth control," I add. "He thought I was on a pill."
The words land heavier than I expect them to.
There's silence on the other end now. Not distracted silence. Focused.
"Did he... can he do that?" she asks.
"I don't know," I say. "He knew who my OB was. I never told him."
"That sounds like a HIPAA violation."
"I don't care about HIPAA," I say, the edge in my voice surprising even me. "If he can find that, he can find everything."
Reese doesn't interrupt this time.
I keep going, the words coming faster now, like they've been waiting.
"He can't know about therapy," I say. "That has to stay mine. If he finds out I'm talking to someone—if he decides that's a problem—"
I stop. Swallow.
"I can't lose that," I finish quietly.
Reese sighs. "Okay. Okay. Slow down."
I hate that my eyes sting at that.
"Do you want to take a break from going?" she asks carefully. "Just for a little while? Until things cool down."
"No," I say immediately. Too fast.
Reese doesn't comment on it.
"That's the only place I can breathe," I say, softer now. "Other than my mom's and I can't always get to see her."
The silence stretches.
I glance in the rearview mirror without meaning to.
The black SUV is there. As always. Far enough back to pretend it's coincidence.
"Is there a way," I ask, my voice dipping despite myself, "that it can be the one place they don't follow me?"
Reese doesn't answer right away.
I picture her pressing her lips together, weighing risk against loyalty. The part of her that lives in policy and consequence at war with the part that loves me.
"I don't know," she says finally. "Secret Service doesn't love blind spots."
I nod, even though she can't see me.
"I just need one thing," I say. "One place that's not monitored. One hour."
There's movement on her end, muffled voices. Someone calls her name.
"Let me talk to Alexander," she says. "I'm not promising anything, but I'll see what I can do."
"Thank you," I say, relief washing through me so hard it almost hurts. "Thank you."
"We'll figure something out," she adds.
The call ends.
I drive in silence, my heart still hammering but my breathing finally starting to even out.
Ten minutes pass.
Then fifteen.
At the next intersection, the SUV behind me changes lanes.
I tell myself it's nothing.
Then it slows.
Then it turns.
I keep driving straight.
For a full block, I wait for the familiar presence to reappear in my mirrors.
It doesn't.
My chest loosens so suddenly I have to pull in a sharp breath.
I hadn't realized how tightly I'd been holding myself together until the pressure lifts.
By the time I pull into the parking lot at the Lennox Group, my jaw aches from clenching it.
I turn off the engine and sit there for a moment, hands resting uselessly in my lap.
This isn't safety.
But it's close enough to feel like mercy.
I grab my purse and step out of the car, the air cool against my skin, grounding in a way I didn't know I needed.
Inside, the lobby smells the same as always—citrus and polished wood, calm by design.
The waiting room is quiet as usual.
Isabel isn't at the front desk.
There's another woman there instead, older, her smile polite and unfamiliar.
I sign in without comment.
"Dr. Lennox will be with you shortly," she says.
I nod and take a seat, my back to the wall out of habit.
Only then do my thoughts catch up to me.
The baby.
The implant.
The way Rodney said that he doesn't like to ask twice and I know what happens when he does.
My chest tightens.
I press my feet flat against the floor, name the colors in the room, the shapes, the sounds—everything Grant taught me.
None of it sticks.
My breath comes too fast.
My hands tingle.
The room feels distant, like I'm watching it through water.
I lean forward, elbows on my knees.
It isn't enough.
Heat rushes up my neck. My heart pounds, uneven and loud, each beat tripping over the last.
No.
Not here.
Not now.
"Naomi."