11. Athena
ATHENA
Running isn’t on my agenda just yet.
I lie in bed with the phone glowing beside me, re-reading the message until the letters feel carved into the inside of my eyelids.
The picture is worse than the words, and the words are bad enough.
Nathan’s hand on my thigh under the table, my face turned toward him like I trusted the moment, and someone close enough to capture it cleanly.
My fingers hover over the screen like I can press it hard enough to erase the whole night. I don’t do anything useful for a long minute. The first thought in my head is Nathan. The second thought is that if I tell him, I might light the fuse I’m trying to outrun.
I sit up slowly and turn on the bedside lamp, then I scan the room like I expect to find a person hiding behind my laundry basket. The apartment is still the same cramped space I pay too much for. The silence is normal. The lock on my door looks normal.
My hands aren’t.
They keep clenching around nothing.
I grab my phone again, open the message thread, then tap the number at the top. Unknown. No name. No profile photo. No little clue to hold on to. I take a screenshot, then another, and I save the images to a hidden folder out of reflex, the way I do at work when something needs documentation.
I told myself I’d go to the police first thing in the morning.
That was the plan. That was the responsible adult move. Print the screenshots, file a report, show them the threat, get it on record, and let the system do whatever the system does when a woman says she’s being watched.
Then my brain supplies the part it doesn’t want to say out loud.
The system will ask who. The system will ask why. The system will ask whether I’m in danger at home. The system will ask whether there’s someone powerful involved.
And the second I say Nathan’s name in any form, even as a fact in a chain of events, it stops being my problem and becomes his too.
I swing my legs off the bed and walk to the kitchen without turning on overhead lights. The floor feels cold under my feet. I fill a glass of water, take three slow sips, then stare out the window at the street below like it holds an answer.
A part of me wants to call Nathan anyway. Not the boss. Not the doctor. The man who put his hand on my thigh like he meant it, the man who looked at me in the hallway and made me feel chosen for a full minute.
Then the dinner conversation returns, sharp and humiliating.
Tools. Agendas. Leverage.
I press the heel of my hand to my forehead and stand there until the water glass is empty. If I call him now and confess I’m pregnant and being threatened, he’ll hear two things at once, and one of those things will sound like the exact pattern he’s spent years resenting.
I don’t need a lecture tonight.
I need safety.
The phone rings at 4:52 a.m.
The sound makes my nerves jump so hard I nearly drop it. When I see the caller ID, the dread shifts shape. My mother’s name on my screen feels legitimately ominous. I stare at it for a moment and consider letting it ring out, then I answer because my body still remembers the rules. “Hello.”
“Athena,” Veronica says, voice sweet enough to make my teeth ache. “Are you awake?”
“Yes,” I reply, then immediately regret giving her information.
“Well,” she says brightly, “I’m glad someone in this family functions like an adult.”
I close my eyes and lean my shoulder against the wall. “What do you want, Mom?”
“I want to know,” she says, and the smile slips from her voice, “why someone vandalized my front porch at three in the morning.”
My skin goes cold. “What?”
She keeps talking, words clipped now, anger sharpening her consonants. “A plant was smashed. The welcome mat was cut. Someone sprayed something on my door..”
My fingers dig into the edge of the counter. “Mom,” I say slowly, “what did they spray?”
Veronica makes a small sound that could be a laugh if she had a soul. “Nothing you’d put on a Christmas card,” she replies. “And there was a note.”
My mouth goes dry. “What note.”
Veronica pauses like she’s savoring it. “I found it in the mailbox. A little folded piece of paper. Very theatrical, if I do say so myself.”
I stop breathing for half a second. “What did it say?”
Mom inhales then reads it like she’s performing for an audience. “That smartass daughter of yours will be next.”
I grip the counter harder. For a moment my apartment feels too small. “Are you sure,” I whisper, and I hate myself for how small my voice sounds.
“Oh, I’m sure,” she replies, then her tone turns sharper. “So now you’re going to tell me what you’ve done.”
“I didn’t do anything,” I say quickly.
Mom makes a dismissive sound. “Athena, people don’t vandalize a home at random,” she replies. “This is connected to your choices, and I’m not going to pretend otherwise.”
I rub my eyes wearily. “Mom, listen to me, I—”
“No,” she interrupts, “you listen to me. I raised you to be careful, and you’ve always had to make everything harder than it needs to be.”
A bitter laugh escapes me before I can stop it. “You raised me to be obedient.”
“You’re being selfish again,” she snaps. “Do you have any idea how humiliating it was standing outside my door with the police while my neighbors watched?”
My eyes burn. “Did anyone get hurt,” I ask, forcing myself back to the point.
“No,” Veronica says, then her voice softens in the most manipulative way possible. “Not yet.”
My nails press into my palm. “What do you want me to do,” I ask quietly.
Mom sighs like she’s tired of me. “I want you to stop whatever you’re doing. I want you to stop dragging trouble to my doorstep, and I want you to think for once about how your actions affect people other than you.”
My chest tightens with anger. “You haven’t cared about how your actions affect me in years.”
At that, she replies with a mean little chuckle. “I cared enough to tell you the truth. Men don’t tolerate chaos, Athena, and now you’ve brought chaos to my home too.”
The message is obvious. This is my fault. Fix it. Quietly.
“Mom,” I say, voice steady now, “I’m going to handle this.”
“You’d better,” she replies. “And don’t expect me to cover for you. If this gets worse, I’ll tell the police to speak directly with you.”
I end the call before she can keep going then stare at the dark screen in my hand. The silence after her voice feels like pressure in my ears.
Taking a few steps forward, I plop down on the edge of my couch with my hair still damp from an earlier shower I don’t remember taking, and I stare at nothing while my mind runs through my options like a checklist.
The threat isn’t just to me. Someone went to my mother’s house.
Someone wanted to prove they could.
My phone buzzes again, and I flinch, then realize it’s my alarm.
Work.
I stand up slowly and get dressed with the same mechanical exactness I use for hospital protocols. Scrubs. Shoes. Hair pulled back. Bag checked twice for wallet, keys, ID, and phone. I look in the mirror before I leave and my face doesn’t look like mine.
It looks like a mask that’s trying not to crack.
The hospital is awake when I arrive, the lobby full of coffee and footsteps. I swipe my badge at the entrance and walk toward pediatrics, then pause when I see a note taped to my unit door.
Athena Hale, please report to Human Resources immediately upon arrival.
My heart stutters. Surely the timing of this can’t be coincidental? Did mom call HR on me?
I turn on my heel and head toward the elevators before anyone on the floor can stop me.
The corridors feel longer than usual, and my badge sits heavy against my chest. I keep my expression neutral as I pass nurses and residents, and I keep my pace measured even though every part of my body wants to run.
HR sits on the second floor in a clean, functional little suite.
The receptionist looks up as I approach, then glances at her screen like she’s been waiting.
“Athena Hale,” she says.
“Yes.”
She gestures toward a closed door. “Meredith is expecting you.”
I push the door open and step into a small office with a conference table and two chairs. Meredith sits behind the table with a folder in front of her and a cup of tea beside it. She looks up with a polite smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.
“Athena,” she says warmly. “Thank you for coming in.”
I keep my hands at my sides and sit in the chair across from her, then place my bag carefully on the floor like I’m buying time.
“What is this?”
Meredith steeples her fingers on the table in front of her. “This is a conversation about professionalism.”
I stare at her. “I’m scheduled,” I reply. “I’m on the floor. If you have an issue, talk to my manager.”
Meredith’s smile deepens slightly. “You don’t have a manager issue. You have a medical director issue.”
My pulse speeds. “What?”
Meredith opens the folder and slides a photo across the table.
It’s me and Nathan, in the restaurant. His hand on my thigh.
My skin goes cold all over again. I don’t touch the photo, but I don’t look away either. “Where did you get that?”
Meredith tilts her head. “From a concerned party. Someone who cares about Hawthorne’s reputation.”
My mouth goes dry. “You’re saying I’m damaging the hospital’s reputation,” I reply, keeping my voice even, “by having dinner.”
Meredith’s eyes stay on me. “Dr. Nathan Clarke is Chief of Trauma Surgery, and he’s interim Medical Director, which means his conduct has consequences.”
The way she says consequences tells me she’s enjoying this. “And you are staff, which means you’re in a power imbalance, whether you admit it or not.”
I lean back slightly. “Are you accusing him of coercion?” The anger in my voice makes it shake slightly.
Meredith’s smile fades into something colder. “I’m accusing you of poor judgment.”
I laugh once, short and humorless. “That’s convenient.”
Meredith taps the folder lightly with one finger. “I believe certain messes should exist out of this hospital.”
“You’re not being subtle,” I point out.