Page 33 of Darling Venom
She didn’t wait for me to reply. Instead, she breezed in my direction, grabbed a Post-it from my arsenal, and scribbled the address down, slapping it on my keyboard with complete disregard to my tidy environment.
“And don’t come back until you get me that appointment, okay? I’m extremely gassy. I think the babies might resent me for that once they’re here.”
Right. I’d almost forgotten—Reagan was having twins.
My boss dashed to the break room, waving the tips of her fingers like a fairy godmother.
I’d started working for Reagan Rothschild Literary four months ago, two months before my early graduation, and had already moved up the ladder from office coordinator to literary agent assistant.
The end game was to become a literary agent. I’d have to push myself to make it, but I was used to hard work.
I plucked the note from my desk and ordered an Uber. I spent the car ride glued to my phone, answering emails, ordering printer paper, and confirming Leah’s annual checkup with her dermatologist tomorrow.
I assured myself I was okay.
It’s just another Valentine’s Day. You’ve survived three of them since Kellan did what he did.
This would be the fourth.
Of course, nothing screamed “I’m not okay” more than telling yourself that you were okay.
The sedan stopped at the curb of a neo-Gothic building. Tall and looming.
The driver tossed me a pearly smile. “That’s you. Happy Valentine’s Day.”
“Fat chance,” I mumbled, tipping him on the app before my butt left his polyester seats.
I walked into a boutique hospital on 57th Street called Morgan-Dunn. Supposedly, the city’s elite liked to have their babies here because the rooms were more luxurious than in the Waldorf Astoria.
To secure an ob-gyn at this in-house facility, you needed to take your place on a three-year waiting list. This information had come courtesy of Reagan. My twenty-two-year-old self had nothing to do with babies, pregnancies, or—hopefully—hospitals.
I signed my name at the security area, took the elevator to the fourth floor, and poured myself into a sleek clinic. I’d never seen anything that screamed RICH so loud in capital letters, and I’d lived in New York my entire life, save for my college days in Kentucky.
Black-rimmed, shadowy glass doors complimented cherry accents, upholstered brown leather couches, and plush recliners. The reception desk was wave-shaped, made of curved, dark wood. Rows of baskets held loose-leaf tea, snacks, and bottled water in the luxurious lobby, along with prenatal gummy bears and a variety of goodie bags.
A stick-thin woman in a suit stood behind the glossy desk, her brunette hair pulled back so severely, it stretched her forehead tight.
She greeted me with a barely tolerating smile. “How can I help you?”
“I’m here to set up an appointment on behalf of my boss, Miss Reagan Rothschild.” I passed her Reagan’s insurance card.
The receptionist’s frozen smile remained intact as she scanned it, clicking away on her Mac.
She handed back the card. “I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to schedule any appointments for Dr. Marchetti today.”
Dr. Marchetti?
I tried hard not to let his name rattle me.
Marchetti is a common last name, right?
Besides, I assured myself, everything reminds you of Kellan. Especially on Valentine’s Day.
You’re just reading into things.
“Miss Rothschild has been trying to reach him all day. It’s kind of serious, which is why I’m here.” My right foot started rocking. I’d yet to let Reagan down, and I definitely wasn’t about to start today.
“I understand that, but Dr. Marchetti is currently unreachable.”
