The Stolen Pulse Chapter 2

The next morning, I took an Uber to the clinic alone. Eleanor was entirely consumed with taking Preston to Savile Row tailors in Midtown. No one in the townhouse noticed my absence.

In his wood-paneled office, Dr. Mercer stared at my new ultrasounds for an agonizingly long time. He pulled up the scans from three months prior, holding them side by side against the light box, his clinical composure fracturing into sheer disbelief.

"Damian... have you undergone experimental revascularization surgery abroad?"

"No."

He slid the imaging toward me, tapping the film with a silver pen. "This defies clinical precedent."

"What changed?"

Dr. Mercer lowered his voice, leaning across the mahogany desk. "Your initial diagnosis was definitive—severe, congenital cavernosal hypoplasia. But today’s doppler study indicates spontaneous arterial recanalization. The nerve conduction velocities in the pudendal pathways have rebounded to borderline functional ranges."

My fingers tightened around the edge of my chair. "Is the function fully restored?"

"Not entirely. It’s an emerging baseline, but the physiological architecture is actually responding to stimuli." He stared at me intently. "In forty years of urology, I have never seen structural tissue self-repair like this."

I stared down at the gray-and-white gradient of the scans. A strange, suffocating heat pooled behind my eyelids.

When I walked out into the hospital courtyard, Audrey Locke’s sleek black town car was idling by the curb.

She was leaning against the passenger door in an impeccably tailored cream coat, holding a thermal cup of warm water. "Why didn't you text me for a ride?"

"Weren't you supposed to accompany Preston today?"

Audrey’s brow furrowed slightly. "Why would I accompany him?"

I smiled faintly, taking the warm cup from her hands. "Just asking."

She studied my face, a flicker of concern crossing her features. "You look pale."

"Just routine blood work. I’m tired."

She pulled open the passenger door for me. "Let’s get you home."

As the car pulled out onto the avenue, I glanced into the side mirror. Preston was standing behind a stone column at the clinic’s grand entrance, his eyes burning with a jealous, predatory glare.

He was more handsome today than yesterday, yet the malice radiating from him was far heavier.

Once Preston acquired that polished exterior, his obsession shifted toward proving his dominion. He began inserting himself into Audrey’s schedule with suffocating persistence.

The Locke family held immense influence in Manhattan real estate and hedge funds; every elite family in the tri-state area coveted an alliance with them. Preston was no exception.

Eleanor Townsend was more than happy to facilitate it. One day, she insisted Preston didn't know the proper charity circuits and needed Audrey to introduce him; the next, she claimed Preston was feeling alienated and asked Audrey to drive him home.

Audrey brushed him off with an icy professionalism:

"My calendar is full."

"Take a driver."

"Discuss that with Mrs. Townsend."

Every rejection left Preston’s smile stiffer, his jaw tighter. I watched it all unfold from the periphery, offering not a single comment.

Toward the end of the month, Audrey’s grandmother—the matriarch of the Locke family—celebrated her eightieth birthday at their estate in Greenwich.

Three days before the event, Eleanor took Preston to fit a bespoke tuxedo that made him look like a portrait in a luxury editorial.

When my turn came, she barely glanced up, pointing at a muted charcoal suit from last season. "A bright color doesn't suit your demeanor lately, Damian."

"Charcoal is fine," I replied.

Preston stood admiring his silhouette in the three-way mirror, his lips curving with arrogant amusement. "Simpler suits complement you, little brother."

"Thank you, Preston."

My composure unsettled him. He wanted me unraveling, humiliated, and desperate to cling to the spotlight. The more placid I remained, the more frantic his internal hunger grew.