Helena stood motionless. The air in the closet was stagnant, heavy with the scent of fur and the metallic tang of fear. Authur's smirk deepened. He thought he had won. He thought this was the breaking point where the "gold digger" would shatter under the weight of her own dignity.
"What's the matter?" Authur taunted. "Did they not teach you how to serve at finishing school? Or is the Lawrence family too good to touch the help?"
Helena's lips curved up. It wasn't a smile of submission. It was a smile devoid of warmth, clinical and detached. It was the smile she wore when she had to tell a patient that the leg couldn't be saved.
She reached into the pocket of the dress she wore under the shirt. Her fingers closed around a small, crinkled packet she always carried-force of habit. A pair of nitrile examination gloves.
She snapped them on. The sound-snap, snap-was loud in the quiet room.
Jasmine flinched, pulling her foot back slightly. "What are you doing?"
"Hygiene," Helena said simply.
She crouched down. She didn't reach for the shoes. Instead, her gloved hand shot out and clamped around Jasmine's ankle. Her grip was firm, professional, inescapable.
"Hey! Let go!" Jasmine yelped, trying to kick out.
Helena held fast. She leaned in, her eyes scanning the skin on Jasmine's lower calf and the heel of her foot. There was a patch of red, scaling skin, slightly raised, with a distinct annular pattern.
Helena looked up, locking eyes with Jasmine. "I saw your chart," she whispered.
Jasmine froze. "What?"
"Last week. At St. Luke's Trauma Center. You came in for a sprained wrist, didn't you?" Helena lied smoothly. She hadn't seen Jasmine's chart, but she had seen a thousand patients like her. And she knew how to bluff.
"I... I..." Jasmine stammered.
"HIPAA prevents me from discussing the details with anyone else," Helena said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial, pitying tone. She turned her head slightly to look at Authur, who was frowning, his arms uncrossing. "But as a medical professional, I have a duty to warn those in close contact."
"Warn me about what?" Authur asked, stepping into the closet, the towel around his waist slipping slightly. "What is she talking about?"
Helena released Jasmine's ankle and peeled off her gloves, dropping them into a wastebasket in the corner as if they were contaminated with radioactive waste.
"It's a highly aggressive fungal infection," Helena said, standing up and wiping her hands on her dress. "Very contagious. Transmitted through skin-to-skin contact. Or... fluid exchange."
Authur's face went pale. He looked from Helena to Jasmine, horror dawning in his eyes. He took a hasty step back, bumping into the doorframe.
"That's a lie!" Jasmine shrieked, scrambling up, the fur coat slipping off her shoulders. "It's just eczema! My dermatologist said it's stress!"
"Maybe," Helena shrugged, looking bored. "But untreated... it leads to necrosis. The flesh just... rots."
The word rots hung in the air like a foul smell.
Authur looked down at his own chest, at his hands, as if he could already feel the itch. He looked at Jasmine with pure revulsion.
"Get out," Authur whispered.
"Authur, baby, she's lying!" Jasmine pleaded, reaching for him.
Authur recoiled as if she were holding a knife. "Don't touch me! Get out! Now!"
Jasmine looked at Authur's terrified face, then at Helena's calm, clinical mask. She realized she had lost. With a sob of frustration, she grabbed her shoes and ran past them, barefoot, fleeing the suite as if the air itself was poisonous.
The room fell silent again.
Authur stood in the middle of the closet, breathing heavily. He scratched his arm. Then his chest. The power of suggestion was a beautiful thing.
"You..." He glared at Helena. "You're full of shit."
"Am I?" Helena raised an eyebrow. "Are you willing to bet your... equipment on it? I'd suggest a full panel screening. And maybe boil those sheets."
Authur let out a sound of disgust. He turned and sprinted back into the bathroom. The shower turned on again, louder this time. Helena could hear the aggressive sound of scrubbing, the frantic splashing of water.
She stood alone in the closet. The adrenaline was fading, leaving her exhausted. Her knees shook. She leaned against the shelves, surrounded by Authur's suits, and pulled out her phone.
She typed a message to her friend Sophia: Level 1 cleared. The boss is scrubbing his skin off.
The bathroom door opened again. Authur stood there, his skin scrubbed raw and pink. He was wrapped in a bathrobe now, tied tightly at the waist. He didn't look scared anymore. He looked hateful. The humiliation of being manipulated by his unwanted fiancée burned in his eyes.
"You think you're smart," he spat, walking past her to the bedroom. "Wait until tomorrow."
