DASHIELL
"Good morning, Dr. Harper," a familiar cheerful voice called from behind me.
I was walking well, more like shuffling toward my office. Every step sent a dull throb through my hips and thighs. I forced a small smile and turned around carefully, trying not to wince.
Nurse Sari stood there with her usual bright energy, clipboard in hand and a warm grin on her face. "You're moving a little slow today. Rough night?"
My cheeks warmed instantly. "Just… didn't sleep much," I mumbled, which wasn't technically a lie.
Before I could escape, Leo appeared from the side corridor like he had been summoned by chaos itself. He slung an arm around my shoulders with easy familiarity, pulling me into a quick side hug.
"Morning, Dash! Looking cute as always. But seriously, a turtleneck in this heat? In summer? Are you hiding a collar or something?" He wiggled his eyebrows, voice teasing but light.
I smiled awkwardly and gently disentangled myself from his arm, stepping back half a pace. The fabric of the turtleneck suddenly felt too tight against the marks Alexander had left. "It's… nothing. Just a bit chilly in the mornings. I, uh, have to go prepare for my department meeting. The seizure protocols need updating before rounds."
Leo opened his mouth to reply, but his eyes suddenly dropped to my left hand. His entire face lit up with shock.
"OH MY GOD."
Both Sari and I jumped. I stared at him, heart skipping. "What?"
Leo grabbed my hand before I could pull away, eyes locked on the simple platinum band I had completely forgotten to hide or remove in my exhausted haze. "You're married? You're actually married?!"
Sari's eyes widened. "Wait, are you?"
I felt heat rush up my neck and into my face. A few other staff members who had been walking past slowed down, clearly eavesdropping. More heads turned. The hallway suddenly felt far too crowded.
I looked at my feet, shoulders curling inward. Too many eyes and too much attention. My pulse hammered in my ears, the way it always did when things became unpredictable and loud. Rules were supposed to keep things contained. This… this was the opposite of contained.
"Well… it's a him," I said quietly, hoping that would be the end of it.
Leo let out a delighted little giggle. Sari leaned in closer, eyes sparkling with curiosity. "Tell us! Do we know him? Is he a doctor too?"
I hesitated, fingers twitching at my sides. "Um… yes."
Leo bounced on his toes. "Spill it! Or is it some celebrity we don't know about?"
The words tumbled out in a rushed breath before I could stop them. "It's Dr. Astor."
The entire hallway went dead silent. You could have heard a pin drop. Even the distant beeps of monitors seemed to fade.
Then the whispering started.
Leo's jaw actually dropped. "Are you fucking serious?"
Sari blinked rapidly. "Wait… Alexander Astor? Or his brother?"
I frowned slightly, confused by the distinction. "I'm married to Alexander Astor."
More whispers rippled through the small crowd that had gathered. Someone gasped. Another person muttered, "No way."
Leo shook his head, still staring like I had grown a second head. "How did we not know about this? Nothing was in the news. Damn, it was done in secret, right? Like some private rich-people thing?"
Sari jumped in, voice hushed but excited. "Since when have you been married? Is it for love or… you know, one of those arranged rich-family marriages?"
"Alexander Astor? The Ice King? That man is terrifying in the OR. I've seen him reduce residents to tears without raising his voice."
"I thought he was married to his job. Never pictured him with anyone, let alone someone as sweet as Dr. Harper."
"Cold as ice. How does that even work?"
Their words swirled around me like static. I didn't know how to feel. Part of me wanted to disappear into the floor. Another part, the logical part, kept replaying Alexander's calm, unsympathetic voice from the car: *They already whisper about me being a psychopath. Now they can whisper about how well I fuck my husband.* He truly didn't care. But I did. The attention made my skin crawl. My thoughts fragmented, jumping between the soreness still pulsing through my body, the unfamiliar weight of the ring on my finger, and the sudden realization that my private life had just become very public in the worst way.
It was too much. Too many variables. Too many eyes watching my every micro-expression.
My heart raced faster. I swallowed hard and forced the words out. "Please… stop. I'm tired."
Without waiting for more questions, I turned and walked straight into my office, shutting the door firmly behind me. The click of the latch sounded impossibly loud in the sudden quiet.
I leaned back against the wood, eyes closed, breathing too fast. My hands pressed flat against the door as if I could physically hold the chaos outside at bay.
*Why did I say it like that?*
*They think he's a monster.*
*They think I must be crazy… or forced.*
*But he's not a monster. He's just… Alexander. Logical. Direct. Unemotional.*
*And last night he made me feel things I didn't even know were possible, even if it hurt.*
My legs still trembled faintly from exhaustion and leftover overstimulation. The turtleneck scratched against the marks on my neck. I hated how everyone assumed the worst about him and by extension, about us. At the same time, their shock made a strange, anxious knot form in my stomach. Was this what being married to Alexander Astor meant? Constant whispers? People looking at me like I was either a victim or a puzzle?
I slid down a little against the door, pressing my forehead harder to the cool surface.
This was going to be a very long day.
And I still had no idea how I was supposed to feel about any of it.
*****
When my breathing finally slowed, I pushed myself up, walked to my desk, and sat down carefully. Every movement reminded me of last night. I winced, shifted, then forced myself to open Mateo's chart.
The six-year-old's photo stared back at me — round cheeks, big brown eyes, looking far too small in the hospital bed. I reread my notes from yesterday.
The staring before the stiffening.
The timeline that didn't perfectly match post-surgical hypoxia.
The way both parents had exchanged that quick, nervous look when I asked about recent falls or head bumps before the heart surgery.
Something wasn't adding up.
I didn't want to jump to conclusions. I wasn't supposed to accuse anyone. But my gut kept whispering that Mateo might have been hit or had a fall that caused a brain injury, and the parents were hoping the hospital would take the blame for the seizures.
I picked up the phone and dialed the extension for Social Work.
"Child Protection Team, this is Maria," a calm woman's voice answered.
"Hi Maria, this is Dr. Harper in Pediatric Neurology. I have a six-year-old patient, Mateo Rivera, admitted for new-onset seizures after recent cardiac surgery. I'm concerned there may be a history of unreported trauma. The seizure semiology and parental responses during history-taking don't fully align with post-op complications. Could we get a consult? I'd like to review old primary care records and discuss quietly."
Maria's tone stayed professional but shifted slightly. "Understood. I'll pull the chart and come by your office in about twenty minutes. We can review together and decide if we need to escalate to a formal SCAN evaluation or involve CPS. Have you documented your concerns?"
"Yes," I said quietly. "But I haven't confronted the parents again. I didn't want to alarm them."
"Good call," she replied. "We'll handle it carefully. See you soon."
Twenty minutes later, Maria knocked and stepped in. She was in her mid-forties, kind eyes behind glasses, no-nonsense ponytail. She carried a tablet and a thick folder.
"Dr. Harper," she said, sitting across from me. "Show me what you're seeing."
I walked her through everything.
Maria nodded slowly, lips pressed together. "This warrants a closer look. I'll request the full primary care records and any previous ER visits immediately. If we see a pattern of injuries or inconsistent stories, we'll order a skeletal survey and head imaging to check for old fractures or subdural hematomas. I'll speak with the parents today, gently and document everything. If it looks like non-accidental trauma, we'll make the mandatory report to Child Protective Services. The hospital has a duty to protect him."
I exhaled slowly. "Thank you. I just… I don't want to be wrong."
"You're not accusing anyone yet," she said gently. "You're doing exactly what you're supposed to do, noticing patterns and asking for help. That's good medicine. We'll keep this discreet for now. The parents don't need to know we're investigating unless it escalates."
She left with the chart, and I sat back in my chair, staring at the closed door.
My body still ached. My mind was exhausted from the morning gossip, the car ride banter, and now this heavy responsibility. Protecting a child felt right, but the weight of it pressed on me. What if the parents got defensive and took Mateo home against medical advice? What if I was seeing something that wasn't there?
I pressed my forehead against the cool desk for a second, letting the quiet of the office wrap around me like a small, safe bubble.
One thing at a time, I told myself. Focus on Mateo. Protect the child. The rest…. I'll figure it out .