The Workaholic Wife ✅

A Man's Intuition

"Oh, I really hate paparazzi!" Aniket whines as another click resonates around the small fitting room.

We have no ways of escape. The room had one exit— the entrance, and that was currently blocked by photographers. I could see a eye popping from beneath the stall.

"I think we provided enough of a show." I clear my throat, as I drag Aniket outside.

Wave upon wave of flashes click, as we march through the room hand in hand. Reporters throw questions at us like paper planes made of newspaper, but we do not respond. The bulky people in black suits, the two who Aniket called our bodyguards, we're surrounding us, trying to stop the journalists from nearing us.

One reporter, a man in a vertically stripped white and peach button down shirt and simple khaki pants, managed to sneak past the guard easily. He was thin, and shaking like a nervous mouse, clutching his camera for dear life. He looks around him, spotting me as I come near him, and blocks my way, taking a clear shot of Aniket and I. Before the man could get back behind everyone else, the bodyguard slaps the man, knocking him out cold. He lies on the floor, and every instinct in my body tells me to help him.

I try to let go of Aniket's hands to rush to the reporter's aid, but Aniket pulls me back by the elbow, causing me to stumble. I glare at him, trying to communicate my need to help the poor man through my eyes. Aniket shakes his head once firmly, and I receive the message. Don't cause a scene.

"Aniket, I will be only causing a scene if I don't help the man." I don't wait for his reply as I shrug off his hands, and run to the man, who is bleeding from the head now. I glare at the bodyguard who caused this innocent man harm, and go back to brainstorming how to aid him.

Head trauma is always the worst case scenario. Every doctor has their own way of handling it and it has always been a debate in our hospital whether we should treat the casualty or wait for an ambulance. Although, an ambulance is never expectable. Sometimes, patients die waiting for the ambulance, holding on their hope that they will be survive.

"Aniket, your handkerchief! Now!" I order, but he just stands there, hands fisted. I crane my neck to the back, begging him with my eyes.

I can hear him sigh, even with the noise all around me. He huffs as he crouches near me, handing his kerchief from his pant pocket. He must've transferred the kerchief to his new set of pants before he removed his old ones.

"Here." He says solemnly, not a hint of reaction on his face. This must be his camera look. Blank.

I receive the piece of clothing, and immediately turn to get to work. I have to check the man's vitals before anything. He has small laceration on the top side of his head. It was gushing blood out, but not too much. I check his eyes using the flashlight on Aniket's smartphone. The man was groggily groaning, and his eyes were responsive. That ruled out raccoon eyes. No significant damage to the brain.

I suddenly think of Aarav. He would have been a great asset in this position since he was a neurosurgeon.

The reporter's pulse was high, above normal, but other than that, his other vitals were completely fine. He had no lumps or abnormal markings behind his ear. He did not vomit. He seems to be in a daze; but that could have been the shock of being hit.

"Bring him water!" I know I am not supposed to give him any water to drink; but I could always use it externally. I needed to ask him a few questions to determine the status of his memory.

While the cashier was rushing to find water behind the counter, I deal with the laceration. I dab the kerchief gently on the wound, removing excess blood before tightly trying the cloth around his head.