She hates Atlas’s brothers. I caught bits of murmured conversation outside, low voices that turned to nothing the second they walked in. There’s a story between the two of them that much is clear. Maybe she doesn’t hate Atlas because they were something once.

And no, I’m not jealous.

But wouldn’t it be weird to be under the care of someone who used to sleep with my—what even is he to me now? Are we supposed to be married?

I can’t believe he didn’t tell me my name is now Blythe Timberbridge. He could’ve at least given me a heads-up, not that I would’ve agreed with it. Nope. That’s . . . I don’t need to be anyone’s wife.

This situation keeps getting worse by the second. Messy. Complicated. And maybe I should just leave.

Atlas gave me enough money to buy whatever I need—including clothes. It’s an advance, he said.

I am not buying shit.

This is my escape fund. The money I’ll use to disappear. Maybe to Canada. Would they take me? Could Winston find me there?

Is it safer to stay here?

But now . . . now I’m supposed to act like I’m Atlas’s wife.

The moment Lydia called me Mrs. Timberbridge, something inside me locked up. Like a door slammed shut in my head, trapping me inside a life that isn’t mine. I don’t know if Atlas sensed it or if he was just waiting for me to react, but the way he grabbed my hand—like he thought I would bolt—only made the tension worse.

Now, I’m sitting on an exam table, wrapped in a flimsy gown, about to be examined by a doctor who might already hate me just for being close to him.

And Atlas?

He stands nearby, playing the role of a doting husband well enough. Close, but not hovering. Concerned, but not overbearing.

Like he knows I don’t want him here—but refuses to leave anyway.

“Hi, I’m Dr. Moreau,” she finally speaks, glancing at the screen. Her frown is small, but I catch it. She lingers too long before looking up.

“Blythe Timberbridge?”

My stomach twists.

She stares at the screen. Then, at Atlas.

“I had no idea you were married.”

I want to say Me neither, but I don’t. I just offer a polite, neutral smile. One that probably says, Well, here I am, just examine me, lady.

Atlas doesn’t flinch. “Yeah, not many do.” His voice is even. Casual. “I like to keep my life to myself. Plus, we just got back to town. The last thing I want is for everyone to be watching us.”

Dr. Moreau hesitates, then nods. “Of course.”

She turns her attention to me, her voice soft but clinical as she runs through the standard questions—last cycle, symptoms, medical history. I answer what I can. Lie where I need to.