I lasted exactly thirty-six hours before I broke.
It started with a text from an unknown number late the next night.
Unknown: It’s Elias. I got your number from your chart. I know I shouldn’t have. Tell me to delete it and I will.
I stared at the message until the screen dimmed, heart slamming against my ribs. Every sensible part of me knew the right answer. Delete. Block. Pretend the last two days never happened.
My fingers moved on their own.
Me: Don’t delete it.
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
Elias: Can you meet me tomorrow? Not at the clinic. Not at the house. Somewhere private.
I should have said no.
I typed yes.
The address he sent led to a quiet boutique hotel twenty minutes outside the city. Neutral. Discreet. The kind of place people went when they did
