Page 30 of Obeying

Logan's jaw shifts slightly.

"It got worse. He didn't want me talking to male colleagues, didn't want me going out with friends after shifts. If I came home late, he'd want to know where I was, who I was with, and why I didn't call. I felt trapped, but every time I thought about leaving, I'd think about what he did for me. About the calls he made. About how I wouldn't even be a doctor right now without him."

My voice is steady, but my hands aren't. I press them flat on my thighs.

"I tried to break up with him once. He said no. Just like that. He told me things would be tough without him. That I'd lose the residency, that hospitals don't keep residents who got in through favors without someone backing them. He said he didn't want me to struggle. That he'd relax, he'd be better, give me more space." I crack a knuckle. "And then he said the thing he always said. That he only acts the way he does because he cares too much. That most women would be grateful to have a man who loves them this much. And he made me feel like I should be. Grateful. Like his jealousy was proof of love, and I was selfish for not seeing it that way. So I stayed. Because he'd done so much for me, and he was promising to change, and I thought maybe he was right. Maybe I was the problem."

Something crosses Logan's face, and I pause, but he gestures for me to continue.

"Yeah. He didn't change. It escalated. After I tried to leave, it was like he doubled down. He started tracking where I was, checking my phone, wanting to know every person I talked to at the hospital, every interaction, every conversation. If I was five minutes late getting home, he'd already be texting. If a male colleague's name came up twice, he'd want to know why. I felt like I was living under surveillance."

I blink away sudden tears. Those months were horrible. To feel claustrophobic in your own relationship.

"So I made a plan. I had to be careful because if he found out, he'd stop it before I could go. I applied to this hospital in secret. I used a computer at the hospital library and mailed the paperwork from a post office across town. I figured after my second year at St. Andrew's, I could transfer cleanly. No ties to him or connection to his family's money. I was going to break up with him properly before I left. He did help me, and despite everything, I thought he deserved at least that."

I stop. This is the part that's hard.

"But then two weeks before I was to resume work here, I came home after a long shift. I was exhausted. I just opened a can of tuna and didn't even bother reheating it. He came home in a bad mood, we'd been fighting a lot already, and he saw the food and lost it. He said it was cold. I told him I just got home, that I was tired. And I said…" I close my eyes. "I said if he wanted a housewife who cooks hot meals, then he should go find another woman. Because I can't do this anymore."

I open my eyes and look at Logan, then wet my lips because they suddenly feel dry. "He pulled his fist back and punched the door right next to my head."

Logan's whole body goes rigid, every muscle in him fighting to stay still. To defuse the situation, I almost say he looks like a diagram of the human muscle, all edges and planes. But even as I think it, I know it won't work. And what's the point? Nothing is funny about my situation.

His voice is low. "Has he ever hurt you physically?"

"He grabbed me. He controlled me, isolated me, manipulated me. But he never hit me. The wall was new."

He nods slowly.

"The next day, when he left for work, I packed what I could and left. I came here. To my dad's house. And I've been here since."

The room is quiet except for the low hum of the building and everything I just said sitting heavily between us.

Logan leans forward. "He's never going to touch you again."

He says it like a vow.

I give him a wry smile. "This isn't over. He'll come back. He always has leverage I don't see coming. He's manipulative and he has connections."

He doesn't flinch or look even slightly worried.

"Then we stop him."

We. I hold onto that word.

He stands. "I need to finish some rounds and check on a post-op patient. Then I'll drive you home."

"Okay."

"I'll also talk about the security measures here. I won't let him hurt you again, Kristen."

I nod. When he says my name like that, I can't help but believe him. He starts toward the door and then stops. He turns back. He looks like he wants to say something else but decides against it. Instead, he just says, "You did the right thing. Leaving."

And then he's gone.

I sit in his office for a while. Just breathing. I told him everything. The real everything, not the restaurant version with the careful edits and the parts I skipped. And the ceiling didn't collapse. He didn't look at me with pity, didn't tell me I should have left sooner—which is the thing people always say, like it's the simplest thing in the world to walk away from someone who's convinced you that you can't survive without them.

He just said we. And right now, that word is the only solid thing I have.