Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 76329 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 382(@200wpm)___ 305(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76329 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 382(@200wpm)___ 305(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
Fifteen floors gave me too much time to think. What kind of medical exam would this be? Part of me didn’t even want to know. Another part kept saying, It can’t be that kind. Can it?
The elevator doors opened with a soft chime to reveal a reception area unlike any doctor’s office I’d ever seen. The walls were a soft silver-gray, illuminated by recessed lighting that seemed to glow rather than shine. There were no medical posters, no health pamphlets—only a sleek desk of what looked like brushed steel, behind which sat a woman with immaculate dark hair pulled into a severe bun.
Unlike the lobby guard, the receptionist smiled—a practiced, professional curve of red lips that didn’t reach her eyes.
“Audrey Campbell,” I said, trying to sound more confident than I felt. “I have an appointment at—”
“Yes, of course,” she interrupted smoothly, her fingers already tapping at the tablet embedded in her desk. “We’re expecting you. Please have a seat. Nurse Georges will be with you shortly.”
I perched on the edge of one of the chairs in the waiting area, a modernist piece that looked more like sculpture than furniture. The leather felt cool against the backs of my thighs even through my skirt.
There were no magazines, no television—nothing to distract me from my racing thoughts. The only sound came from the soft click of the receptionist’s nails against her tablet. I tried not to fidget, tried not to look as terrified as I felt.
The question returned, the one that made my heart race: what kind of medical exam was this going to be? The app had said, explicitly, that Selecta wanted to verify my eligibility for the First Intimacy Premium Program. I tried to tell myself that didn’t represent a euphemism for confirming my virginity. Would they actually… check? The thought made me cross my legs tightly, my face heating up again.
“Mademoiselle Campbell?”
The voice, crisp and accented, startled me from my thoughts. I looked up to see a woman standing in a doorway I hadn’t noticed before. She wore a pristine white uniform that seemed both modern and somehow reminiscent of a more traditional nurse’s outfit, fitted in a way that emphasized her slim figure. Her steel-gray hair was pulled back into a perfect bun, and rectangular glasses perched on her nose, through which sharp gray eyes assessed me.
“I am Nurse Georges. Please follow me.”
I stood on legs that felt suddenly wooden, smoothing my skirt nervously. She turned without waiting to see if I had followed. I hurried after her, through the doorway and into a corridor lined with identical doors.
She stopped at one, tapped a code into a small panel beside it, and pushed it open. “In here, please.”
The room beyond seemed dazzlingly bright after the muted lighting of the reception area. I swallowed hard at the sight of the examination table with its metal stirrups. Going to the gynecologist had never felt like a comfortable experience, but under the current circumstances the sight of the table made my tummy flip.
I stood frozen just inside the door of the pristine little room, my eyes darting around its confines. Along one wall, a glass-fronted cabinet displayed an array of medical instruments I couldn’t name—some looked familiar from my annual checkups back home, but others seemed more ominous, their purposes unclear.
“I’ll be just a moment getting ready,” Nurse Georges said, her voice brisk and efficient. “Please remove all your clothing.”
She turned to wash her hands at a small sink in the corner, her movements precise and economical, as if she’d performed this routine thousands of times. Which, I realized with an obscure flush of embarrassment, as if for all the girls who had had to undress here, she probably had.
I glanced around the room, searching for the familiar blue paper gown that was always provided at my doctor’s appointments back in Illinois. There wasn’t one draped over the exam table or hanging on any of the hooks on the wall. My heart began to race.
Nurse Georges noticed my searching gaze and turned to me, drying her hands on a paper towel.
“You won’t need a gown for this examination,” she said frankly. Her French accent made the statement sound somehow both clinical and slightly imperious.
I swallowed hard, my mouth suddenly dry. “I’d still like to have one, please,” I said, hating how small my voice sounded. “I’m not comfortable being… completely exposed.”
Nurse Georges sighed—a short, impatient exhalation that made me feel like a troublesome child. She fixed me with a direct stare through her glasses that made me want to look away, but I forced myself to meet her gaze.
“Mademoiselle Campbell,” she said, her tone cooling several degrees. “If you wish to succeed in the Selecta Arrangements program, you will need to learn not to question instructions. The examination requires full access to your body. A gown would merely hinder the procedure you’ve requested.”