"It is," he says firmly. "Not just for the slap. Your quarterly examination was scheduled for this week anyway."
I'd forgotten about that—the regular health checks stipulated in our arrangement, monitoring my physical condition like maintenance for valuable property.
"Fine," I concede, taking the ice pack from his hand to hold it myself. "I'll see the doctor. But I'm perfectly all right."
His gaze searches mine, looking for something I can't identify. "This won't happen again," he promises, voice low and certain. "He will never have access to you again."
The protective declaration should feel like another form of possession, another man claiming authority over my interactions. Instead, it sends an unexpected wave of relief through me.
"Thank you," I say simply.
He looks surprised at my genuine gratitude. Before he can respond, his phone buzzes with what is clearly an urgent message.
"Security protocols," he explains, checking the screen. "I need to ensure the perimeter adjustments are implemented correctly. Will you be all right for a few minutes?"
I nod, still holding the ice against my cheek. "Go. I'm fine."
He hesitates, then presses his lips briefly to my forehead—a gesture so unexpectedly gentle it catches me off guard. "I'll return before the doctor arrives."
When he's gone, I sink onto the nearest bench, suddenly exhausted. The confrontation with my father has left me shaken in ways I hadn't anticipated. Not from fear—I've endured hisrage before—but from the realization that Gage's protection felt like safety rather than another form of control.
Dr. Fielding arrives precisely on schedule, his professional demeanor unchanged since my pre-wedding examination. He sets his bag on the dining room table that's been cleared for his use, withdrawing instruments with practiced efficiency.
"Mrs. Blackwood," he greets me formally. "I understand there was an incident this morning."
"A minor one," I reply, removing the ice pack to reveal what I'm sure is visible bruising now. "Nothing serious."
He examines my cheek with clinical detachment, checking for fractures or deeper tissue damage before pronouncing it a superficial injury that will heal without intervention.
"Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to proceed with your scheduled examination," he says, opening his medical bag wider. "It's been approximately three months since your last complete assessment."
The routine is familiar now—blood pressure, heart rate, basic reflexes. He draws blood for the standard panel of tests, makes notes about my weight (slightly increased since Paris), and asks clinical questions about my general health.
"Any changes in your menstrual cycle?" he asks, not looking up from his notepad.
I pause, mentally calculating dates. "It's late," I realize aloud. "About two weeks now."
This catches his attention. He glances up, setting aside his pen. "Are you typically regular?"
"Yes." The implications of the question hit me suddenly. "But that's not unusual with stress, and there's been plenty of that recently."
He nods noncommittally. "Any nausea? Breast tenderness? Unusual fatigue?"
I think back over recent days—the morning queasiness I'd attributed to anxiety, the exhaustion that seemed natural given emotional circumstances.
"Some," I admit. "But nothing significant."
Dr. Fielding reaches into his bag and withdraws a small plastic cup. "I'd like to perform a pregnancy test as part of your examination. Standard procedure given the circumstances."
The clinical phrasing doesn't disguise the significance of his request. I take the cup with suddenly unsteady hands, following his directions to the nearby bathroom.
When I return, he conducts the test with efficient movements, adding drops of my sample to a small device that looks more sophisticated than the drugstore tests I've seen in advertisements.
"This will take a few minutes," he says, setting a timer. "In the meantime, let's continue with the examination."
I comply mechanically, responding to questions about sleep patterns and nutrition while my mind races ahead to possibilities I've refused to consider until now.
Gage's words from our honeymoon echo in my memory: "Going to keep you full of my cum until you're swollen with my child." The deliberate crudeness had seemed like just another aspect of his possession at the time. Now those words take on new significance.
