Chapter 6 - The Clinic
|
The clinic on 65th Street wasn't a normal hospital. There were no waiting rooms filled with coughing people, no fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. It looked like the lobby of a five-star hotel, staffed by discreet professionals who asked exactly zero questions.
Victor walked beside the wheelchair they insisted I use, his presence commanding absolute silence from the medical staff.
A doctor examined my hip behind a privacy screen.
“A deep contusion and a mild sprain,” the doctor diagnosed, handing me an ice pack. “No fractures. But you need to stay off that leg for at least forty-eight hours, Ms. Martinez.”
I let out a bitter laugh. “I have a double shift tomorrow. If I don't work, I don't pay rent.”
When I emerged from the exam room, limping slightly, Victor was standing in the hallway, speaking quietly to Marco. He turned when he heard me approach.
“You’re limping,” Victor observed, his jaw tightening.
“I’ll live,” I said, trying to force a brave smile. “Thank you, Mr. DeLuca. For everything. I’ll call a cab to take me home.”
“Marco will drive you,” Victor stated, leaving no room for argument. “Give him your address.”
I was too exhausted to fight him. I gave Marco my small, run-down apartment address in Queens.
Victor walked me out to the car. As I reached for the door handle, he gently caught my wrist.
“Do not go into work tomorrow, Anna,” Victor said quietly. “Rest.”
“I told you, I can't afford to rest,” I replied, the desperation bleeding into my voice. “My mother's medical bills don't care about my bruised hip.”
Victor stared at me for a long moment, reading the sheer exhaustion in my eyes. He didn't offer me a stack of cash, which I would have refused out of pride. He simply let go of my wrist.
May you like
“Get some sleep,” he said.
The ride to Queens was silent. When Marco dropped me off, I limped up three flights of stairs to my tiny apartment, collapsed onto my bed, and fell into a dark, dreamless sleep, assuming I would never see Victor DeLuca again.
