Chapter 5

Glass and chrome glinted under a bright blue sky as Roman studied the contours of the sleek building before him. The modernity of the doctor’s office felt incongruous compared to the turmoil churning in his gut. He was a man accustomed to control, to dissecting courtrooms with a sharp tongue and biting wit, not to this gnawing vulnerability.

“Ready?” Wander’s voice cut through the fog of Roman’s apprehension, grounding him.

“Let’s get this over with,” Roman muttered, adjusting the cuffs of his well-tailored Hugo Boss suit—his choice of armor for today’s battle. A little over the top for a doctor’s visit, but he always felt better when he was dressed to the nines. Clothes might not make the man, but they sure as hell could provide an extra boost of confidence.

They stepped into the waiting room, a space that screamed sterile efficiency with its minimalist furniture and muted tones. Other patients occupied the uncomfortable-looking chrome chairs. An elderly couple, moms with young kids, a middle-aged man sitting by himself—each person wrapped in their own cocoon of worry, their silent battles echoing his own. No one was at the neurologist’s office for fun. That much was certain.

He checked in with the receptionist, then obediently sat where she told them to wait. Jesse’s money and connections had gotten Roman a quick appointment at what promised to be a one-stop neurological clinic that could do all diagnostics in one day, but that didn’t mean he was spared from waiting. Not that he was complaining about that mild inconvenience. Wander and he sat silently, and Roman had never been more grateful to have his brother by his side.

The door swooshed open, and a woman swept in—their gatekeeper to answers—commanding the room, her white coat as assertive as her stance. She looked every bit the matriarch of medicine, her eyes sharp, missing nothing.

“Mr. Dwyer?”

He jolted and got up. Showtime. He could only hope she’d take him seriously. “I’m Dr. Snyder.”

He took her outstretched hand. “Roman Dwyer. This is my brother, Wander.”

“Pleasure to meet you.”

They followed her down a brightly lit hallway with endless doors, most of them closed.

“Right in here.” She stopped by an open door. Her examination room was spacious, with a desk on one end and an examination table on the other.

She gestured at two chairs opposite her desk. “Please take a seat. Now, what brings you in today?”

After a glance at Wander for support, Roman launched into the tale they had prepared. He couldn’t tell her the truth on the off chance she’d recognize his name, but he did want to stay as close to the real problems as possible. So he altered some details and told her a story of memory issues and being unable to recall doing certain things.

She listened intently, taking notes on her laptop. “Do you drink, Mr. Dwyer?”

“A glass of whiskey on occasion, but not daily and certainly not excessively.”

“Smoke?”

“Never.”

“Any other complaints?”

“Trouble sleeping, migraines from time to time.”

She frowned. “How often would you say you have a migraine?”

“Maybe once every two weeks or so?”

“How debilitating are they? Do you take anything for it?”

“They’re annoying, but they don’t prevent me from working. And so far, ibuprofen and naproxen have worked.”

“Speaking of work, what line of work are you in?”

“I’m a criminal attorney.” Another small deviation from the truth, but close enough.

“How would you rate your stress levels?”

He couldn’t help but chuckle. “Excessive? Not sure what scale to use.”

She gave him a smile back. “Excessive paints a picture.”

She continued questioning for another few minutes about his daily habits, whether he exercised, ate healthily, had any other complaints or issues, and then she zoomed in on his memory issues, asking for specific details.

When she was done, she leaned back in her chair. “I can see why these symptoms would concern you, Mr. Dwyer. Do you have any family history of neurological disorders?”

“Not as far as I know.”

“I’m going to be honest with you, Mr. Dwyer. This doesn’t sound like a neurological problem but more a psychological one. Your symptoms do not match any classic neurological disorder, and I can’t detect a pattern that would fit even more unusual ones. But I’d still like to do an MRI to rule anything out.”

“I’d appreciate that.”

“The scan itself takes about thirty minutes, but I want to do one with contrast, which means the radiologist will administer a contrast solution through IV, which will take a while to set up.”

“We came prepared to spend several hours here.”

“Good. I’ll bring you to the MRI waiting room, and someone will be with you shortly to explain the procedure in more detail and go over all the steps with you.”

The next hour passed in a blur. There were papers to be signed and instructions to go over. He was led to a different room and asked to change into a hospital gown. The IV was hooked up and the contrast solution administered, and then he had to wait until that had taken effect. Finally, he was brought into the room with the MRI machine, which was a massive monster.

The technician put a head coil around his head, immobilizing him to the examination bed. She carefully put in earplugs and double-checked his position. Classical music—he’d been able to give his preferences—streamed through the earplugs, and he took a deep breath as the bed slid into the MRI machine. He’d been told it would make a racket at first, so he focused on Bach’s Mass in B Minor and tried to forget about everything else.

The machine hummed to life, a low growl that quickly crescendoed into a steady drone. Roman’s heart pounded against his ribcage, thumping an erratic rhythm that mocked the calm he feigned, but after some deep breathing in and out, it slowed.

Thirty minutes was a long time when you had to lie completely still inside a machine. Thank fuck, he wasn’t in the least bit claustrophobic. When it was finally done, he dressed again and returned to the waiting room, where Dr. Snyder would come get him once she had the results.

The moment he stepped through the door, Wander met his gaze. A silent conversation passed between them—nervous energy, questioning looks. They didn’t need words, not really. Together, they sat in a hushed purgatory of glossy magazines and muted news on the TV. Roman’s leg bounced a staccato rhythm that betrayed his composure.

“Mr. Dwyer?”

It had seemed like an eternity before Dr. Snyder called his name again. Wander and Roman rose to their feet and followed the neurologist, the click of Roman’s polished shoes against the sterile floor echoing his pounding heart.

“Take a seat,” the doctor said as she flicked on the monitor. The screen flickered to life, revealing images of Roman’s brain, a digital landscape of shadows and light that meant nothing to him.

She tapped the screen with a blunt fingernail. “Your scan is completely normal.”

Five words, simple and direct, but a wave of relief coursed through him so intensely that Roman wavered for a moment.

“No abnormalities were detected that explain your issues, which suggests, as I expected, that they are not neurological in their cause. I suspect the high stress levels in your job are getting to you, Mr. Dwyer, and I urge you to make significant lifestyle changes.”

“Changes,” Roman repeated.

“Healthy diet, regular exercise.” As if prescribing a regimen could turn the downward spiral Roman’s life was in ever since he’d taken on the case against Whitman. “A reduction of hours, if possible, and sufficient sleep. They may sound like medical clichés, like a Band-Aid for a much bigger problem, but those changes combined can make a world of difference.”

As simple as her directives were, they felt like an unattainable luxury. His existence was defined by the relentless tick of the clock and the endless pursuit of justice. Caseloads, depositions, trials—all demanding his attention, all feeding the beast of stress that gnawed at his sanity, even before the threats and strange events had begun.

No, the bizarre occurrences might not have been his imagination, but that didn’t mean he shouldn’t take her words to heart. He was in the fight of his life—the fight for his life—and this was a marathon, not a sprint. If he didn’t take care of himself, the alternative was a slow unraveling, strands of self-preservation fraying until nothing remained.

“Thank you, Dr. Snyder. I promise I will take your advice to heart.”

They left the clinic and walked to Wander’s car. As Wander drove back, they were both silent. Thank god his brother allowed him time to decompress and process his thoughts.

“I’m not crazy, then,” he finally said.

“I never thought you were.”

No, he hadn’t. From the moment Roman told him, Wander had been convinced someone played mind tricks on him, a deliberately cruel attempt to make Roman question his sanity.

“It’s all connected, then. The threats, the break-in, the stuff with my secretary, the car accident, everything.”

“Did you honestly doubt that?”

“You have no idea what it’s like to get a call from your insurance company about a car accident you have no memory of being in. I thought I was losing my mind.”

Wander shot a look sideways, face carved from stone, eyes hard. “It’s classic gaslighting. A mind game, designed to twist your reality, make you question your sanity.”

Roman’s gut clenched. He knew the term, had thrown it around in courtrooms, but to be a victim of it? That was something else. Fear coiled tighter in his chest.

“Do you know where the term gaslighting originates?” Wander asked.

Roman shook his head.

“It’s from an old black-and-white movie from the forties called Gas Light. It’s about a husband who dims and brightens their gas-powered lighting but denies doing it to his wife, so she thinks she’s imagining things and going insane. He wants her to think that so he can steal her money. But the whole concept is someone fucking with your mind to make you and others question your sanity and believe you’re imagining things.”

“Goal accomplished.”

“But now we know the truth, yeah? There’s nothing wrong with your head other than that you’re a stubborn SOB who should’ve come to me about this months ago. What the fuck, Ro? Why didn’t you tell me?”

Apparently, Wander had saved his anger for when he knew Roman was medically cleared. How thoughtful and so typical Wander. “I thought I could handle it.”

“Even if you did, it doesn’t mean you should have to face this alone. And let me tell you. If shit had gone south and you’d ended up dead, I would’ve been seriously pissed off with you for not allowing me to protect you. This is what I do, Ro. This is literally my job.”

His professional pride was hurt along with his brotherly. Roman could understand that, and he respected Wander for it. “Sorry. I should have told you sooner.”

“Yeah, and thanks for acknowledging that.”

“We good?”

Wander reached out and squeezed Roman’s thigh, his touch grounding, solid. “Always. I got your back.”

“Thank you.”

A last squeeze and Wander let go. “Let’s focus on finding these bastards and putting an end to their games.” His voice was a blade, sharp and sure.

“Where do we start?”

“My team is already on it. I need you to take the rest of the day to relax. Catch up on sleep, maybe go another round with Caleb, and then we’ll start fresh in the morning.”

Another round with Caleb. Wander said it so easily. For him, it probably was. He’d never made a secret of his sexual identity and his preferences. He’d been a Dom his whole life and had never felt embarrassed about it. How Roman envied him for that. In all fairness, Wander didn’t have a job where it was a liability like Roman did, but still.

“I don’t know if I can. With Caleb, I mean.”

“What’s the problem? And I don’t mean to sound flippant. I’m serious. What are you worried about?”

Wasn’t that the million-dollar question? “Is ‘everything’ too dramatic?”

Wander snorted. “A little.”

“I don’t even know where to begin, but maybe the biggest concern is that I’ll get used to it again, that once I allow myself to indulge in this, in the kind of sex I love, I won’t be able to stop wanting it. And I can’t, Wander. I can’t. My job doesn’t afford me the luxury of engaging in these pleasures.”

Wander was quiet for a while as he navigated the roads with ease. “I get that. I don’t like it, but I understand it’s an inevitable consequence of the career you chose.”

“It is. No offense, but I even have to be careful about associating with you. It’s not hard to find out what you do and what your lifestyle involves, and that could come back to bite me in the ass.”

Wander’s face tightened. “That’s because people are close-minded dicks who don’t have a fucking clue about the beauty of BDSM and kink. They think we’re all perverts.”

“Unfortunately, yes. As much as I would love to change that, I can’t. This is the reality of my life, my job, and I’ll have to adjust.”

“For now.”

For now? What did that mean? No, Roman wasn’t going to ask. It wouldn’t lead anywhere. “I appreciate the offer of using Caleb’s services again, but I’ll need to think about it.”

“I respect that. Just keep in mind that what happens in Jesse’s house stays in Jesse’s house. No one needs to know.”

Roman didn’t doubt that, but that wasn’t his primary concern. He would know. Worse, he would feel what it was like to be with another man again, to let that part of himself free, and once he did, would he be able to put it back? If he came out of that proverbial closet, even if only for a few days, would he ever be able to shove himself back in?

He highly doubted it.