"Put the folder down," Bray demanded, stepping around the desk.
"You increase my life insurance to five million dollars, skip our anniversary dinner, and tell me not to overthink it?" I tossed the file onto the leather chair.
"I was working," he insisted. He reached out, his fingers grazing my arm. "I stayed late to finalize our financial planning. Everything I do, I do for you, Lina. You know that."
I pulled my arm away. The harsh overhead light caught the side of his collar as he shifted his weight. A dark, purplish-red smudge marred the skin right below his jawline.
"Is that part of the plan, too?" I pointed at his neck.
Bray’s hand flew up, covering the spot. "What?"
"That mark on your neck."
"It's a mosquito bite, Lina."
I let out a flat, humorless laugh. "A mosquito bite? In the middle of November? On the fourteenth floor of a sealed office building?"
"I was in the park earlier," he muttered, adjusting his tie to hide the blemish. "I took a walk to clear my head. Look, I'm sorry about dinner. Let's just go home. I'll make it up to you tonight."
The drive back was silent. Once inside our bedroom, the quiet stretched thinner, pulling taut.
Bray unbuttoned his shirt, tossing it into the hamper. He turned toward the bed, his chest bare.
"You said you'd make it up to me," I murmured.
I closed the distance between us, resting my palms flat against his chest. I leaned in, pressing my lips to his jaw, intentionally avoiding the red mark.
He didn't pull me closer. Instead, his hands clamped around my wrists.
"Lina, stop." He gently but firmly pushed my arms down.
"We haven't touched each other in weeks," I whispered.
"You're not well," he replied. He picked up his pajama shirt and pulled it over his head. "Mila said your white blood cell count is erratic. You need rest, not exertion."
"I don't feel sick right now. I feel ignored."
"Don't do that," he sighed, climbing under the covers and turning his back to me. "Don't make me the bad guy for caring about your health. When you're completely better, things will go back to normal. I promise."
But I didn't get better.
The next morning, Bray set a small plastic cup on the kitchen counter. Two white capsules rattled inside.
"Take them," he instructed, sliding a glass of water toward me.
I picked up the cup. "I hate how these make me feel."
"They're the new supplements Mila prescribed. They'll fix your immune system."
I swallowed the pills.
Within three days, the dizziness started. It hit me in violent waves. I dropped a ceramic plate while loading the dishwasher on Wednesday. My knees buckled, forcing me to grip the granite counter until the kitchen stopped spinning.
At night, my pajamas clung to my skin, soaked in sweat. I would wake up gasping, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.
"I can't take those pills anymore," I told him on Thursday morning, gripping the edge of the dining table to steady myself.
"You have to," Bray argued, pushing the plastic cup into my hand. "You're just weak right now. It's your body fighting off the infection. Trust the process, Lina."
"I feel worse!"
"Because you're fighting the treatment. Drink the water."
I stared at the white capsules. My stomach churned.
"Take them," he repeated, his tone hardening.
I placed them on my tongue and drank the water, forcing them down. He smiled, a tight, practiced expression, and kissed my forehead before leaving for work.
Mila began stopping by the house. At first, it was once a week. Then, every other day.
She sat on my living room sofa on Tuesday afternoon, her medical bag resting on the glass coffee table. She scribbled something on her notepad, never meeting my gaze.
"Your blood pressure is still low," she announced to the room, rather than to me.
Bray paced behind the sofa. "Is that normal for this stage?"
"It can be," Mila replied. She snapped her notepad shut and stood up. "Bray, can we speak in the hallway for a moment? About the dosage adjustment?"
I sat up straight, my head swimming. "No."
Both of them froze.
"Excuse me?" Mila asked, her voice tight.
"I said no," I repeated, forcing myself to stand. My legs trembled, but I locked my knees. "Say it here. I'm the patient. Stop having private meetings about my body."
"Lina, calm down," Bray scolded, stepping between Mila and me.
"Why does she need to take you into the hall?" I challenged him. "What is she going to tell you that she can't say to my face?"
"It's medical jargon," Mila intervened. "I just need to explain the chemical interactions to your husband so he can monitor you properly."
"Then explain it to me!"
Bray grabbed my shoulders, his fingers digging into my skin. "Stop acting crazy, Lina. She is taking time out of her busy clinic schedule to do house calls for you."
"I didn't ask for house calls!"
"You're being paranoid," he snapped, his voice rising. He shoved me back slightly, forcing me to sit down on the sofa. "Mila is trying to save your life, and you're treating her like an enemy."
"She acts like an enemy," I fired back.
"Enough." Bray turned his back to me, gesturing toward the front door. "Come on, Mila. We'll talk on the porch."
Mila grabbed her bag, offering me a fleeting, pitying glance before following my husband out the door.
The heavy oak door clicked shut, leaving me alone in the silent living room.
I dragged myself to the window and parted the blinds just a fraction.
They weren't talking about dosages.
Bray stood close to her, his hand resting on the small of her back. Mila leaned in, whispering something in his ear.
Then, she slipped a small, unlabeled prescription bottle into his coat pocket.
