After My Lover Hit Me, I Lied About Another Man’s Baby

The hives started small. Just a patch of heat on my neck while I was testing the new lavender serum samples in the back room of Bloom & Blush. I thought it was nothing. Maybe the air was too dry. Maybe I'd rubbed my skin too hard with the cotton pad.

Then my arms began to itch.

I looked down. Red welts were spreading across my forearms like spilled wine. My throat felt tight. Not closed, but tighter than it should be.

"Astrid." Whitney's voice came from the doorway. She took one look at me and crossed the room in three steps. "Hospital. Now."

"I'm fine," I said. My voice came out thinner than I wanted.

"You're not." She grabbed my purse from the hook and shoved it into my hands. "Emerald Grove is ten minutes away. Go."

Emerald Grove Medical Center.

I felt the name land in my chest like a stone.

"Whitney, I can go to—"

"There's no time to drive across the city." She was already steering me toward the door. "Your throat's swelling. I can hear it. Go."

She was right. I could feel it now. The tightness creeping inward.

I drove myself. Hands steady on the wheel. Breathing through my nose. The late afternoon light cut through the windshield in hard, flat angles. I kept my eyes on the road and did not let myself think about who might be working today.

The ER intake nurse took one look at my arms and moved me to the front of the line. I sat in the exam room on the paper-covered table, hands folded in my lap. The air smelled like antiseptic and something faintly metallic. I stared at the biohazard bin on the wall and counted my breaths.

The door opened.

I looked up.

Ronan Harris stood in the doorway, tablet in hand, white coat crisp and perfectly fitted. His eyes met mine. For one second—maybe two—neither of us moved. The air in the room changed. Thinned. I felt it press against my ribs.

Then his face went smooth. Professional. Empty.

"Ms. Parker." His voice was even. Clinical. He stepped inside and closed the door behind him. "Allergic reaction?"

"Yes."

He set the tablet on the counter and washed his hands at the small sink. I watched his shoulders, the precise way he dried each finger. He turned and pulled on gloves without looking at me.

"What were you exposed to?"

"A skincare sample. Lavender serum."

"Any history of contact dermatitis?"

"No."

"Other allergies?"

"None that I know of."

He stepped closer. His hands moved over my arms, checking the welts with the detached efficiency of a man who had done this ten thousand times. His fingers were cool through the gloves. I kept my eyes on the wall behind him.

"Throat tightness?" he asked.

"A little."

He reached for the penlight and angled my chin upward with two fingers. I held still. He examined my throat, my lymph nodes, the inside of my mouth. His face was six inches from mine. I could see the fine lines at the corners of his eyes that hadn't been there three years ago.

"Stress can exacerbate these reactions," he said quietly. "Are you under any unusual stress, Ms. Parker?"

The question landed like a blade.

I met his eyes. "No more than usual."

His jaw tightened. He stepped back and stripped off the gloves. "I'll prescribe an antihistamine and a topical corticosteroid. Avoid the product. If the swelling worsens or you have trouble breathing, come back immediately."

"Understood."

He picked up the tablet and began typing. I watched his hands. The same hands that had held me once. The same hands that had—

I stopped the thought.

"You'll need to update your contact information," he said without looking up. "The system shows an old address."

"I'll do it at the front desk."

"Fine."

He finished typing and set the tablet down. For a moment, he just stood there. Then he turned to face me fully.

"You look well," he said.

I didn't answer.

"Different," he added. His eyes moved over my face like he was cataloging changes. "Settled."

"I am."

Something flickered across his expression. Too fast to name.

"Good," he said.

He opened the door and paused. "The nurse will bring your discharge papers."

Then he was gone.

I sat on the table and looked at my hands. They weren't shaking. Not yet.

I signed the papers at the nurses' station without reading them. Picked up the prescriptions. Walked through the automatic doors into the parking lot. The sun was lower now. The light softer.

I got into my car and closed the door.

Then I pulled out my phone and called Whitney.

"Hey," she said. "You okay?"

"He was there."

Silence. Three seconds.

"I'm coming to get you," she said.

"No. I'm fine. I'm driving back now."

"Astrid—"

"I'm fine."

I ended the call. Started the engine. Drove back to Bloom & Blush with both hands on the wheel and my eyes on the road.

When I walked in, Whitney was at the counter. She looked up. I smiled.

"All good," I said. "Just hives."

She didn't smile back. But she didn't ask.

I restocked the lavender display. Greeted Naomi Chen when she came in for her usual rose oil. Made the closing tea—two cups, one on Whitney's desk.

I did not think about the exam room.

I did not think about his hands.

I did not think about the way he had looked at me like he was trying to solve something.

I drank my tea and locked the door at six.

And when I got home to the empty penthouse, I stood at the window and looked out at the city lights until my reflection disappeared into the glass.