8. Cormac
Cormac
I know what this is. Elena’s results. My results.
All I need to do is open them.
The folder sits on my desk, cream, heavy, authoritative.
Nothing about it is accidental. Nothing about this moment is accidental.
I pause, longer than protocol requires, because despite everything I know, the hours of preparation, the quiet rehearsal of procedure, there is a gravity here that cannot be quantified. A gravity I did not anticipate.
I slide the flap open deliberately, feeling the resistance of the paper beneath my fingers as though it is reluctant to yield its truth.
The rustle of the sheet is almost inaudible, yet it commands my full attention, every sense drawn to the threshold of knowledge I am about to cross.
I hesitate for a fraction longer than I admit, because touching it, unfolding it, is not merely mechanical.
It is the moment reality becomes irreversible.
Numbers. Codes. Biology. I do not flinch, I do not exhale immediately, I do not allow sentiment to intrude. I read it again, twice, three times, because certainty must be verified, confirmed, fully acknowledged.
Positive.
My child. Already inside Elena, already a force that cannot be undone, already a shift in the order I maintain with absolute precision.
I close my eyes for a moment, long enough to feel the low coil of responsibility tightening in my chest, the subtle reminder that control, however absolute, has limits, and that even I am subject to that consequence.
I place the sheet back in the folder with deliberate care, centering it perfectly, and for the first time in hours, I allow myself the awareness that everything has changed even as the room remains exactly as I left it.
This is really happening.
I pick up the phone, dialing her number. It rings once. Twice.
“Hello?” Elena’s voice is calm, but there’s an edge to it, a quiet sharpness that’s familiar. I already know she isn’t impressed. I can almost envision her pinching her nose.
“Elena. Dr. Brennan. I need you to come in for a consultation. The results are in.”
There’s a pause. A shift in the air. I can almost hear her processing the information.
“Okay, so I?—”
“You should come here,” I interject. “As soon as you can.”
“I’ll be there in half an hour.”
I hang up before she can say anything more, but I’m not surprised by her answer.
Elena doesn’t need to say much to communicate what’s beneath the surface.
She’ll comply, but there’s always that hesitation, that resistance she wraps around herself like a shield.
It’s familiar, and, if I’m honest, it keeps me on edge in ways I haven’t yet figured out.
When she arrives, she’s punctual, as always. The door opens quietly, and there she stands, looking exactly as I expect. Composed, a little tense, but radiating the same quiet confidence.
“Sit,” I say, not lifting my eyes from the papers in front of me.
She doesn’t need to be told twice. She walks over and lowers herself into the chair across from me, her movements precise as always. There’s a slight stiffness to her posture today, a faint change I can’t quite place.
I slide the results toward her, keeping my eyes on her face. I need to see how she reacts, what she’s thinking. “You’re pregnant,” I say, matter-of-fact, as though it’s nothing more than an observation.
Her eyes flick to the paper for only a moment before she looks back at me. Her jaw tightens just slightly, and I catch the way her gaze hardens, the challenge in it.
“I thought so,” she says flatly.
I lean back slightly, watching her closely. “You’re pregnant. It’s positive. I need to make sure you understand the next steps.”
Her lips press into a thin line, and for a second, I almost think she’s going to push back. “What steps?” she asks.
The sharpness in her voice makes me pause for a fraction of a second.
I push the papers toward her, but she doesn’t take them right away.
She stares at them, her fingers tapping the edge of the desk lightly.
I can feel the resistance building between us.
Elena doesn’t like being controlled, and she knows what this means.
“The next step is monitoring,” I say, leaning forward just a little, feeling the slight shift in the room when I close the distance between us.
It’s always like this. When I get too close, she reacts.
I don’t understand it, but I always feel it.
“You’ll be here every morning for check-ins.
Blood pressure. Vitals. Ultrasound when necessary. ”
Her gaze flickers to me, then back down at the papers, her fingers clenched against the edge of the desk. There’s a flicker of something—irritation?—but I don’t let it affect me.
“Every morning?” she repeats, as if she’s testing the boundaries. “I still have to come here that regularly?”
“Yes,” I reply, not backing down. “Every morning. It’s standard for program pregnancies in the first trimester.” It’s not standard. It’s my preference. But she doesn’t need to know that.
“That seems excessive,” she says tersely.
I feel a pulse of heat shoot through my chest, a subtle pressure building in my ribs, but I ignore it. I don’t allow any bit of it to show.
“It’s not excessive,” I say coldly. “It’s necessary. You signed the agreement. This is what you agreed to.”
Her fingers twitch, a subtle sign of the tension building in her, but she doesn’t say anything. She knows she can’t challenge me. Not on this. Not after what she signed.
She shifts in her seat, her gaze steady, but there’s something else in her eyes now. Resignation. She’s already calculating, weighing her options. She doesn’t want to, but she’s beginning to accept it.
“Fine,” she mutters, the quiet acceptance in her tone almost imperceptible.
I push the schedule toward her. “You’ll also need approval for any medications, supplements, or activities outside of the program’s routine. Exercise, diet, lifestyle changes—it all goes through me. I’ll approve it. Not before.”
Her jaw tightens, her eyes narrowing slightly. She wants to argue; I can see it. But she restrains herself. She just looks at the schedule, then back at me.
“I don’t have a choice, do I?” she says, the words almost a whisper.
“No,” I reply, my voice unwavering. “You don’t.”
She stands up slowly, folding the schedule carefully in her hands. The defiance is still there, but it’s muted now, fading into the background of resignation. She knows she can’t fight it.
I stand as well and take a step closer, just enough to close the distance between us but not enough to push her too far.
She looks up at me, her eyes still guarded, but there’s something in them that wasn’t there before.
A flicker of understanding. A shift. Her breathing changes, her chest rising and falling a little more sharply than before. I feel it. The air between us thickens.
She can feel it, too. There’s a spark in her gaze. Something raw, something unspoken. I almost don’t know what to do with it. For a brief moment, I feel the loss of control, the shift. She’s affecting me in ways I haven’t prepared for. I shouldn’t let this happen. Not here. Not now.
Her lips part slightly, and for an agonizing moment, I think she’s going to speak, to say something that would pull me back from the edge of this unfamiliar feeling. But then she shuts her mouth again, nodding once, short and clipped, before turning toward the door.
I let her go, but I don’t move. I stand still, watching her exit. The door closes softly behind her, but the tension remains, lingering in the air.
I should feel satisfaction, but something else churns inside me. This isn’t about the pregnancy. It’s about her. Elena. She’s a complication I didn’t expect, and I’m starting to realize that she’s going to be the most dangerous variable in my perfectly calculated world.