28. Cormac
Cormac
Liam Brennan is in Dublin.
It’s no longer speculation. No longer an unreliable tip.
No, this is confirmed. A colleague—Doyle, of all people—saw him at a medical tech conference last week in London.
Fertility devices, software. Liam’s in sales now, apparently.
And there’s talk of him returning to Dublin for a role.
A potential contract, a possible opportunity.
He’s here. And that changes everything.
I sit at my desk, hands resting on the polished wood, but inside my mind, the calculations are running. Timing. Risk. Exposure. Variables. I’ve accounted for every possible scenario, every potential consequence.
If Liam sees her, if he hears her name, if anyone makes the wrong connection, everything collapses. The pregnancy. The program. My child. One slip, one misstep, and the entire house of cards I’ve so carefully built will come crashing down.
I run through the options in my mind. Objectively. Clinically.
Option one: ignore it. Pretend it doesn’t matter. That would be a mistake. Exposure is inevitable. The longer I wait, the higher the stakes. He’s here now. The child is only months away. There’s no more time for hesitation.
Option two: confront him directly. Speak to him.
Control the narrative before he can unravel it.
A calculated move. It has its merits, but it also introduces risks.
Too many unknowns. Her response. His reaction.
The public story that will be told. One wrong word, one slip of human emotion, and the consequences become catastrophic.
Option three: bind her completely. Contain her.
Secure her. Absolute control. Every choice she makes, every move she takes, dictated by me.
This is the only option that guarantees predictability.
This is the only course that ensures risk mitigation.
This is the only course that aligns with certainty.
Option three has always been the one I return to. And now, it’s time to execute.
I stand, the decision already made, and move through the clinic with precise efficiency. The staff nod in greeting. Phones buzz quietly in the background. The building hums with the calm, regulated rhythm I’ve spent years perfecting. It is all system, all order. Everything in its place.
By six, the clinic quiets. Evening light casts long shadows across the floors, and the sounds of the building dim to a low hum. I leave, my coat heavy against the wet chill, my thoughts focused, the plan now unfolding.
Elena’s apartment is my destination. She’s complied with the program, yes. She’s moved through the motions with a precision that would satisfy most directors. Appointments on time. No more transfer requests. No more arguments. She’s played her part.
It would please someone else. It doesn’t please me.
Her compliance is too clean. Too neat. I know this behavior.
It’s not peace. It’s calculation. It’s recognition of what I am capable of.
She knows now exactly how much I control.
Housing. Medicine. Money. Everything. She knows there’s nowhere meaningful for her to go.
That recognition isn’t the end. It’s the beginning.
I swipe the keycard and enter the building.
The lift rises steadily to the third floor.
As the numbers change, my mind narrows, focusing on the contained variable in front of me.
She’s been compliant, yes, but I know better than to believe that means she’s settled.
Compliance is a surface thing. I need more than that. I need her full consent.
At her door, I pause just long enough to knock once. The door opens immediately.
There she is. Always poised. Except tonight. There’s something amiss. Something that shifts the moment I step into the apartment.
“Dr. Brennan,” she says, her voice as cool as always.
I nod.
Her eyes flicker over me, scanning. Calculating. She knows I’m not here for a casual visit. The tension is clear in her erect posture, the slight tightening of her jaw.
“Something’s happened,” she says, testing the waters, trying to gauge my intention.
I don’t hesitate. “Yes. Liam is in Dublin.”
The words detonate between us. She freezes, just for a moment, her breath catching before she masks it. I see the way her chest rises and falls, the way her muscles tense.
“Has he contacted you?” she asks, her voice sharp, testing for weakness.
“No,” I reply.
I let the silence sit for a moment. It hangs between us like a threat she’s unwilling to acknowledge but can’t ignore.
“We cannot leave this to chance,” I continue, my voice measured. “He may see you. He may hear your name. Exposure is immediate. The child, the program, the structure… everything depends on containment.”
She nods, though I can see the frustration growing beneath her surface. It’s expected. I let her feel it.
“You will stay here,” I say, firm. “Within the arrangement. All appointments, all interactions, all movement, coordinated. No exceptions.”
Her eyes flash with resistance, a brief spark that’s all too familiar. It’s useless, though. She knows it. She knows I’ve already calculated every possible move.
“And you?” she asks, testing the boundaries.
“I will be present when necessary,” I reply. “Walsh handles your routine. I intervene only when there’s an anomaly or escalation. This is optimal for safety and risk mitigation.”
She eyes me for a beat, her breath steadying. The resistance fades, though her capitulation is reluctant.
“I don’t like being managed,” she says softly.
“Management is not personal,” I reply, my voice cool, detached. “It’s the arrangement. It’s protection. It’s containment of risk. You are carrying my child. That is the highest priority.”
She exhales sharply. She knows I’m right. She knows it’s not negotiable.
“We proceed on schedule,” I continue. “Monitoring. Nutrition. Movement. Rest. Interaction. All curated to eliminate risk. Any deviation will be addressed immediately. No one acts alone. No one violates protocol.”
Her gaze hardens, just a fraction. But I see it. She’s no longer fighting the arrangement.
“Understood,” she says, her voice clipped, resignation setting in.
I nod, satisfied. The situation is contained for now. Liam is a variable I’ve neutralized. For the moment.
I take a final survey of the apartment before I turn back to her. “You should settle in,” I say. The words are simple, almost casual, but I know they’ll land with more weight than she expects.
She laughs, sharp and without humor. “Should I?”
“Yes,” I say, meeting her eyes.
She looks around the apartment, resentful. “Hard to settle when nothing’s mine.”
Her words hit with unexpected force. I turn toward her, my expression unreadable. “The apartment is assigned to you for the duration of your participation.”
“Exactly.”
“Functionally, that makes it yours.”
“No,” she says, meeting my eyes with defiance. “Functionally, it makes it yours, and I’m allowed to use it until you decide otherwise.”
I pause, allowing the silence to stretch. She’s right. I’ve built this program to be suffocating, but it’s also precisely what she needs. She may resent that, but she’ll never leave.
I watch her for a moment longer, then shift back to the task at hand. “Settle in,” I say again.
“Maybe I will,” she mutters, her voice thick with an emotion I can’t place.
“I’ll make sure the environment is suitable,” I say, reaffirming the control I have over everything in her life.
She doesn’t respond, but I see the tightness in her shoulders, hear the slow exhale as she absorbs the words.
I gather my things. “The next appointment remains at ten on Thursday. Don’t skip it.”
She gives me a sharp look. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” she says, the sarcasm lacing her tone.
“Good,” I reply, stepping toward the door.
As I leave, I feel it, a shift in the air. The resistance isn’t gone, but it’s been contained. And for now, that’s enough.
Elena will settle. Whether she acknowledges it or not, she will.
And I’ll ensure it, step by methodical step.