Chapter 3 - The Recovery
Recovery was a blur of beeping monitors and suffocating tension. Claire was awake, but she was groggy, her eyes struggling to track focus. The baby, a boy, was in the NICU, stable but premature.
Evan didn't visit the baby. He stayed at Claire’s bedside like a prison warden.
"She’s confused," he told the nursing staff every time they entered. "She doesn't remember the C-section. She doesn't remember consenting. I’m concerned about her mental health stability."
He was building a case. Every time he spoke, he laid another brick in the wall of "instability" surrounding her.
"Evan," Claire rasped, her hand trembling as she reached for a water glass. "Why does my arm burn?"
"It’s just the IV, darling," he said, smoothing her hair with a touch that looked tender but felt like a chokehold. "You were struggling so much in the ER, the doctors had to sedate you. You were combative. You don't remember because you weren't yourself."
I watched from the door. The gaslighting was so precise, so rhythmic, that even the nurses were starting to look at Claire with pitying suspicion.
"She isn't combative," I said, stepping into the room.
Evan turned, his smile sharpening. "Doctor. Any word on the labs?"
"They’re pending," I lied. "And Claire is recovering well. I’d like to keep her quiet. No visitors for the next four hours, except for the necessary staff."
Evan stood up, his posture rigid. "I'm her husband. I’m her advocate."
"And I am her physician," I replied, holding his gaze until he blinked. "The recovery process requires stress reduction. You are currently the primary source of her agitation."
He stared at me, his eyes revealing a sudden, dangerous intelligence. He knew I was the threat. As he walked out, he whispered something into her ear that made her flinch.
Once he was gone, I sat on the edge of the bed. "Claire, listen to me. Does he ever give you anything? A drink? A pill? Anything he prepares for you?"
May you like
She stared at the ceiling, tears leaking from her eyes. "He says I’m sick, Doctor. He says I have 'episodes.' He shows me videos... on his phone. Videos of me screaming, of me breaking things. But I don't remember those nights. I just remember waking up and feeling like my blood was turning to ice."
"You aren't crazy," I whispered. "But you are being poisoned."
