I shrug then tilt my head toward the room where Blythe is at. “Brought you a patient.”

Simone huffs. “You’re the NDA, no paperwork and all that shit?” She tosses her hands up in the air. “Why am I not surprised? I refuse to do it.”

“She’s pregnant, and we need your help,” I say in what I hope is a pleading voice. I don’t think I’ve ever used that. I always demand things, and it works, but something tells me that if I do that with her, I’ll lose my audience.

“Fine, but I have one condition,” she says.

“Okay . . . what is it?”

“You keep your other brother away from me,” she states.

I arch an eyebrow. This is exactly why she hates the Timberbridge brothers. Keir. The others were also a bunch of assholes to her friends. I wasn’t a saint, but I was never like them. Not once did I go steady with a girl. They knew it was a one-time thing, and I didn’t do it often.

“I will keep him away—” I pause, pressing my lips and giving her a look that says, You’re the one who fucked up— “In my defense, I told you to⁠—”

“Don’t say it. I don’t want to hear a fucking ‘I told you so.’” She glares at me. “Do. Not. Fucking say it—or even mention his name.”

I salute her. “Understood.”

“Come on, then.” she knocks on the door and waits until Blythe let us inside, as we wait, I hear Simone whisper, “I knew coming back would be a bad idea, but . . . well, I’m here.”

It makes me wonder if Nysa knows about her or if Simone is keeping to herself, avoiding the town. She was the smart kid with the problematic mother. That’s probably why she and Keir were close. She believed in his charm, his promises and . . . well, he left her without giving her a second glance. If there’s anyone who would understand Blythe’s situation, it’ll be Simone. I just hope she really helps us.

Chapter Fourteen

Henrietta (Blythe)

I don’t trust doctors.

Not because I think they’ll hurt me. If anything, they’ve always been polite. Distantly professional, carefully indifferent. It’s not them I fear—it’s what they represent.

They used to help Winston.

They stitched me up, reset bones, murmured reassurances while carefully avoiding my eyes. They never asked the real questions. Never pushed too hard. Their only concern was making sure Winston’s wife was repaired, ready for the next time he decided she wasn’t good enough.

This doctor . . . I don’t know if I trust her either.