Dr. Evans' office on the Upper East Side smelled of antiseptic and leather. He was a man with silver hair and hands that were always slightly damp. He was the best orthopedic surgeon in the state, according to Julian.
Sienna sat on the examination table, her bare foot extended. Dr. Evans pressed his thumb into the scar tissue around her lateral malleolus.
Sienna gasped, her hands gripping the edge of the table.
"Tenderness is still present," Dr. Evans murmured, making a note on his tablet. He didn't look at her. He looked at the x-ray illuminated on the wall screen.
"It's been three years," Sienna said, her voice trembling. "Why does it still feel like there is glass inside my joint?"
"As I've explained to Mr. Sterling," Dr. Evans said, turning to face her with a practiced, clinical detachment, "the structural damage was severe. But the physical healing is largely complete. The pain you are experiencing is... complex."
"Complex means in my head," Sienna spat out.
"Complex means your nervous system is hypersensitive due to your psychological state," Evans corrected. "We call it central sensitization. That is why I've agreed with Dr. Aris to prescribe the adjunctive medication. To calm the nerves firing in your brain, not just the foot."
"I don't have a history of hysteria," Sienna said. "I have a history of a shattered ankle."
The door opened, and Julian walked in. He didn't knock. He owned the building, or at least the foundation that funded it.
"How is she, Doctor?" Julian asked, ignoring Sienna and walking straight to the x-ray.
"Refractory pain syndrome," Evans said. "She's resistant to the physical therapy. I suspect she's not doing the exercises at home."
"I do them every day!" Sienna cried. "I do them until I'm weeping!"
Julian turned to her, his face a mask of disappointment. "Sienna, please. Don't raise your voice." He looked back at the doctor. "She forgets, Doctor. She thinks she does them, but I watch the security feeds. She spends most of the day staring out the window."
Sienna's mouth fell open. Security feeds?
"You watch me?"
"To make sure you're safe, darling," Julian said soothingly. "You know you've been prone to falls."
Sienna felt a chill crawl up her spine. If he watched the feeds, he saw everything. But then she remembered the bathroom. The heavy marble shower had a blind spot near the vanity if the door was angled just right. She had tested it once, dropping a towel and leaving it there for hours. Julian had never mentioned the towel. There were gaps in his omniscience.
He turned back to the doctor. "What do we do? She wants to dance again. It's her dream."
"I'm afraid that's impossible," Dr. Evans said, shaking his head. "The joint is too unstable. If she attempts any high-impact activity, she risks permanent crippling. She might never walk again."
Sienna felt the blood drain from her face. The sentence hung in the air like a guillotine blade. Never walk again.
"Is there no other surgery?" she whispered. "A graft? A fusion?"
"We've done everything," Evans said, closing the file. "Acceptance is the next stage of your recovery, Mrs. Sterling."
Julian walked over and wrapped his arms around her. He pulled her head into his chest. Sienna could smell his cologne-sandalwood and something metallic.
"I've got you," Julian whispered into her hair. "You don't need to dance to be worthy of love, Sienna. You have me. I'll carry you."
Sienna closed her eyes. Tears leaked out, hot and defeating. She felt small. She felt broken. But deep down, in the place where the dancer still lived, a tiny, illogical thought sparked: Why didn't Dr. Evans touch the spot that actually hurts?
