Chapter 3

"Take her to the special care unit and keep her under 24-hour watch," Steven told the nurses, his voice calm and sure. "No visitors for now. She needs rest."

I lay there on the bed, too drained to even resist.

"She's been dealing with a lot of pressure lately," he added, real concern showing in his voice.

The nurses nodded—nobody was about to challenge him.

"Just have some rest, babe," Steven said, leaning down to kiss my forehead. His eyes were full of so-called concern and worry, but to me, it was just ridiculous.

The door clicked shut behind me, its sound still echoing in my ears.

The nurses carried out Steven's orders and drew three vials of blood from me, leaving faint bruises on my skin.

Natalie sounded like she was giving a training session. "Before our special treatment, we need a full evaluation. That means we'll need more blood than a routine check-up."

The nurse frowned, her face creased with worry as she looked at my pale face. "Her blood pressure is really low."

"The protocol has to be followed," Natalie said in a tone that brooked no disagreement. "Dr. Brooks needs all these samples for his treatment plan."

By the time they finished the seventh vials, I could barely lift my arm.

"Data collection is going well," Natalie said as she made notes in her logbook.

I wasn't a patient. I was just a lab rat.

Late at night, the corridor fell silent.

I forced myself to sit up, clutching a plastic knife I'd snuck from my dinner tray and hidden under my hospital gown.

I wedged the knife into the door frame and forced it open. The corridor stretched out, quiet and shadowed, but a red light blinked from the security camera overhead.

I pressed myself close to the wall, heart pounding, careful to dodge it.

Steven's office was tucked away at the end of the third floor. The lock popped open with just a nudge from a case folder, and I couldn't help but frown when the password on his computer turned out to be our wedding date.

What a joke. He played the doting husband for everyone to see, meanwhile treating me like some test subject behind closed doors.

The files were stacked by year, neat and clinical. My hands shook a little as I opened the newest folder. It read: [Behavioral Study Grant for Infertile Women.]

The screen was instantly flooded with case after case.

Emily Carter, 35, had her uterus removed and was then told she had ovarian insufficiency.

Sophia Bennett, 29, had her fallopian tubes removed and was pushed toward crazy-expensive ovulation treatments.

And then there was more. The list went on, seventeen names in total. I was just one of them.

There was a five-year blueprint, spelling out every step of the "experiment procedures" with chilling precision.

It included drug trials, behavioral studies, and psychological tolerance assessments.

And right there, in the section marked "Primary Subject," I saw my name staring back—Laura Brooks.

The file also mentioned that the brain response test was scheduled to begin next month.

My hands were shaking so hard that I could barely keep hold of the USB drive. I jammed it into the computer, fingers trembling, and started copying the files.

Just then, someone came in.

"Did you stumble across anything fun in the research files?" Natalie's voice sliced through the silence behind me, and I nearly jumped out of my chair.

She lounged against the doorway with a smirk on her face. "I have to say that your reaction is even more fascinating than I'd pictured."

The coffee was still hot on the desk. I grabbed the cup and slung the steaming liquid at her, aiming right for her face.

She sprang backward, just barely dodging the splash. I snatched the USB and darted for the door.

"Stop her," Natalie shrieked, her cry slicing through the silence. "She's completely out of control."

The alarm sirens exploded through the hospital.

Red warning lights flashed wildly as I sprinted toward the emergency exit.

People came from every direction, and the security guards rushed in to block the stairwell.

I turned around and bolted for the elevator. The doors slid open, and there he was—Steven, standing right in front of me.

"Get her," he ordered, a flicker of hesitation crossing his face before it vanished. "She needs immediate medical intervention."

People surrounded me, forcing me down.

Steven explained to the gathering staff, "She is dangerously unstable. It's a delusional disorder episode."

"He removed my uterus," I yelled, my voice cracked with agony. "They're experimenting on me."

People exchanged glances, but no one believed me.

Someone shoved a needle into my arm—ice-cold meds invaded my veins, numbing everything but my panic.

"This is textbook delusional disorder," Steven said, his words drifting over like a cold diagnosis. "She's still refusing to accept her infertility."

The drugs began to take hold, and everything blurred, leaving me completely disoriented.

Steven's face swam into view.

"Starting today, you'll be on a brand new treatment plan," he said with a smile.

Everything went dark. When I finally woke up, my wrists and ankles were strapped to the bed, iron bars outside the window making escape impossible.

"You're in the psychiatric ward," the nurse said flatly as she checked my IV. "Dr. Brooks says you'll be here for a long stay."

I struggled to sit up, but the straps were painfully tight on my wrists—no getting free, not even a chance.

"Where are my things?" I croaked, desperation woven into my voice.

"What things?" the nurse replied, confused,

The USB drive. That was my last hope.

The TV in my room was tuned to the news, and there was Steven, standing under the spotlight, being interviewed.

"This research grant will help countless women suffering from infertility," he said, offering a flawless smile. "And I want to extend my deepest gratitude to my wife for her unwavering support and sacrifices."

The camera moved across the crowd, and there was Natalie, clapping with that elegant grace.

Just then, the nurse walked in, a syringe in her hand.

"Get some rest," she said softly.

The drugs pulled me back into darkness again. From then on, everything became a haze of needles and pills.

I had no idea how long I had stayed here.

One day, out of nowhere, a stranger appeared. She was just a young intern.

"You need to keep your voice down," she whispered, glancing nervously at the doorway. "I shouldn't even be here."

She blurted out, her voice rushed and shaky, "Dr. Brooks wants to operate on your brain next week. It's for some kind of new research. I hate being part of this."

She took a tiny phone out of her pocket and slipped it under my pillow.

"You only get one shot," she whispered anxiously, then rushed out.

I stared up at the ceiling, numb and drifting, but the moment I held the phone, it cut through the drug-induced haze—like a sudden snap back to life.

My thoughts sharpened. I had only one shot.

I pulled out the phone in the evening.

First, I needed to get myself out. Then I could help anyone else.

I clutched the phone, my hands shaking as I made a call.

"Dad, help me," I choked out.