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Petra talks about appointment schedules and availability. Alester says something about discretion. Dalton asks about access to records, emergency contact protocols, medical decision-making authority. His questions are professional, precise, and somehow the only thing in the room that makes me feel less like cargo.

That angers me a little. I don’t want comfort from him.

Actually, that’s not true, I do. I absolutely do.

That’s the problem.

Eventually, Alester closes the folder. “We’ll continue once the repeat test is complete,” he says. “For now, Maggie, rest. Petra will coordinate the next appointment.”

“Of course,” I say.

Dalton stands first. My heart jumps. He says something brief to Alester, something about needing the file by morning, and then he turns to leave.

No, look at me.

I stand up too quickly, still staring at him. Please look at me, I want to tell him, but he doesn’t.

I force myself to slow down. I pick up my bag. Smooth the front of my dress. Pretend I am not suddenly desperate to get out of this room.

“Thank you,” I say to Alester. “For letting me know in person.”

The sentence sounds ridiculous, but it’s the closest thing I have to manners.

Alester inclines his head. “This is important to all of us.”

Petra’s eyes move to my face.

I don’t look at her.

“I should go,” I say.

“Your car is being brought around,” Petra says.

“I’ll wait outside.”

“It’s cold.”

“I’m fine.”

Her mouth tightens slightly. There it is again, that tiny sign that she has filed me under difficult.

I turn before she can object and walk out of the sitting room. The hallway is long, paneled in dark wood, lit by lamps that probably cost more than my rent. My heels make soft, wrong sounds on the floor. I pass a portrait of a severe woman in pearls who looks like she knows every mistake I have ever made and finds me poorly bred.

By the time I reach the front doors, Dalton is already outside. His car is waiting near the steps. Black. Of course. Sleek and expensive and completely unhelpful to my emotional stability.

He is near the driver’s side, one hand on the door, speaking to someone on his phone.

I push through the door into the cold. “D,” I call out.

He lowers the phone from his ear, says something short into it, then ends the call. When he turns, his face is unreadable.

That hurts more than I expect.

“Don’t call me that here,” he says. The words land like a slap, even though his voice is quiet.

I stop halfway down the steps.

D belongs to texts and voice notes and a hotel room where I could pretend he had no life outside me. Dalton belongs to Alester’s house. Dalton wears suits and asks for medical files and can become real in ways I am not prepared for.