The Rogue Doctor and Thief's Broken Heart

The Next DayDecember 9th; 2024Taylor Swift's Point of ViewI wake up in a haze, the sharp scent of antiseptic filling my nose, and the rhythmic beeping of machines surrounding me. My eyes slowly focus, and I realize I'm lying on a sterile white bed, isolated in what looks like the ICU. The walls are cold, too white, too clean—it feels like a hospital, but I can't remember how I got here.

The first thing I notice is the itchy hospital gown, clinging to my skin in a way that makes me uncomfortable. I instinctively tug at the fabric, but it's no use. I feel the strange mesh hospital underwear against my skin—What in the hell happened?—and a wave of confusion rushes over me. My hands tremble as I try to sit up, but the pain in my head is sharp, making my vision swim.

I glance around the room, trying to piece together what's happening, but nothing makes sense. The sight of the IVs in my arm makes my stomach twist—there are too many, and they feel invasive. A machine nearby beeps softly, measuring my vitals, and I focus on the sound for a moment. My heart rate seems normal.

"Zoë," I croak, my voice raw, desperate. I look around again, as if she could magically appear in the room. Where is she?

"Where's Zoë?" I repeat, this time more urgently, my voice cracking. My pulse picks up, and I fight the panic that's threatening to overtake me.

"Taylor, we'll be in there in a minute. Stay calm," The tone is calm, controlled, and it makes my heart race even faster. The last thing I want right now is to be calm.

Before I can respond, the door to my room opens with a soft squeak. I freeze, my eyes darting toward the door. Two doctors step inside, both wearing disposable hospital gowns, masks, and hair caps that obscure their features. They move with a practiced ease, but their presence only adds to the unease settling in my chest.

The first doctor, a woman with dark eyes and a serious expression, steps forward. Her movements are measured, but there's a kind of efficiency in her demeanor. She doesn't look at me with the warmth I'm used to from caring nurses. Instead, her eyes scan the equipment around me as if checking everything off a list. The other doctor—a man who's taller, his face hidden behind the mask—stands quietly by the door, observing.

"Taylor," the woman begins, her voice soft but firm. "How are you feeling? We need to make sure you're stable before we proceed with anything."

I swallow, my throat dry, and my hands clutch the blanket as I try to steady myself. "Where's Zoë? My daughter?" I repeat, ignoring her question. I need to know she's okay.

The doctor glances at the other, and they exchange a silent look that only makes my anxiety grow.

"Zoë is being cared for, Taylor. She's fine," the woman says after a beat. The way she says it, though, it's clear she's withholding something. But what?

I try to steady my breath. "Why am I here?" I ask, my voice wavering. "What happened?"

The doctor's gaze softens, just a little, but it's not enough to calm me. "You collapsed. You were severely dehydrated and had a fever. We've been monitoring your condition."

I try to process what she's saying, but the fog in my mind is thick, and the more I think, the more it all blurs together. My head hurts so much that it feels like my skull might crack.

"Dehydrated? A fever?" I repeat, still struggling to understand.

The doctor nods slowly. "Yes. We're running some tests to be sure, but you've been through a lot recently. Your body's been under a great deal of stress."

I close my eyes for a moment, trying to collect my thoughts, but it's like trying to hold water in my hands. What's going on? Why don't I remember anything clearly? My mind flickers back to earlier—Travis, the diner, Zoë—and then the memory fades as if it never really happened.

"Where's Zoë?" I ask again, my voice more insistent, desperate for confirmation that she's safe.

"She's being looked after by someone you trust. She's fine, Taylor," the doctor reassures me again, but I can't shake the feeling that there's something more they're not telling me.

I nod, though the knot in my stomach doesn't loosen. I'm still not sure what's going on. I can't escape the feeling that something's wrong.

"By who? There's no one I trust," I snap, my voice cutting through the tension in the room.

The doctor hesitates, glancing again at her colleague. "I'm not sure, but Travis said he'd take care of it."

I freeze, the mention of his name sending a fresh wave of anger surging through me. "Well, that answers none of my concerns!" My voice rises, sharp and biting. "He's the last person I'd trust to take care of her! Where is she? Who's with her? Is she safe?"

The doctor raises her hands in a calming gesture. "We'll get you answers as soon as possible, Taylor. Please, you need to focus on your recovery."

"No," I say, shaking my head as I start to swing my legs off the bed. "I need to leave. I can't afford to be here. I don't have the money or the time for this." My voice wavers, panic rising as I try to pull the IV from my arm.

"Back down," the doctor commands firmly, stepping forward to press me back against the bed. "You have influenza."

The word hits me like a slap. My breath catches, and I stare at her, wide-eyed. "The flu?" I repeat, the panic in my chest blooming into full-fledged terror. "What about Zoë? If I'm this sick...If there's something wrong with me, she could be sick too!"

The doctor's expression softens, but it doesn't ease the dread that's rapidly consuming me. "Zoë is being monitored, Taylor. She's showing no symptoms and is in good hands. We're being cautious with you because of your fever and symptoms. It's protocol."

"Protocol?" I laugh bitterly, the sound more like a sob. "You think protocol is going to make me feel better about being locked up in here while my daughter is out there with strangers?"

"We understand how difficult this is, but you need to let us do our job," the doctor says, her voice steady. "We're working to determine what's going on and ensure you and your daughter are safe."

"I don't trust him," I whisper, tears pooling in my eyes. "I don't trust Travis to take care of her. You don't know him like I do. He'll leave, he'll screw this up—he always does."

"Taylor, you had a fever of 105 degrees Fahrenheit—40.5 Celsius. How you were even functioning is beyond me," the doctor says, her voice firm but laced with concern. "You need to rest."

"I need to see my daughter," I reply, my voice hoarse, each word a struggle as I sit up.

The doctor steps closer, her expression unyielding. "If you leave, you'll die. Do you understand that? 105 degrees isn't just a number—it's the threshold for organ failure. You're lucky you made it to the hospital when you did."

Her words hit me like a slap. Organ failure? My body feels heavy with the weight of her warning, but my heart is heavier with worry for Zoë. I grip the edge of the bed, my knuckles white. "She's my daughter. I need her to know I'm okay. I need to know she's okay."

The doctor sighs, softening just slightly. "Taylor, I get it. But the best thing you can do for her right now is get better. You're in here for a reason. If you push yourself, you won't make it."

"But—" I start, desperation clawing at my throat.

"105 degrees!" the doctor cuts me off sharply, her voice rising just enough to drive the point home. "Do you understand how close you were to dying? You're not just dehydrated or run-down, Taylor. That fever was literally killing you!"

"I... I didn't know," I admit quietly, my resolve faltering for the first time.

"That's why you're here," she says, her tone softening now. "You need fluids, antibiotics, and rest. I promise we'll take care of Zoë in the meantime. But you cannot walk out of here. It's not just your life at stake—it's hers too. She needs her mom alive."

"I swear to God, I just paid off the bill from when I had her. UGH!" I groan, throwing my head back against the pillow in frustration.

The door creaks open, and a doctor steps in. "He's here."

I blink, caught off guard. "Who's here?"

"Oh, Travis is here to visit you," she says casually, as if that's the most normal thing in the world.

"Wait, what?" I nearly choke on the words.

"He wanted us to call him so he could visit when you woke up."

My eyes widen in disbelief. "What happened to HIPAA?!"

The doctor has the audacity to look sheepish. "Well... he is your emergency contact."

My jaw drops. "Really? I never changed it?"

"It happens more than you think," she offers with a weak smile.

I slap my palm to my forehead, muttering, "Great. Just great."

"I'm jealous. Travis Kelce." The nurse smirks, leaning on the counter like she's just heard the juiciest gossip. "Purr. You knew him?"

"Unfortunately." I roll my eyes so hard it's a miracle they don't get stuck.

She grins, clearly enjoying my irritation. "Come on, he's gorgeous. You're telling me you had a thing with him? What was he like? Was he always this hot?"

"Is this the part where I'm supposed to say he was a dream come true?" I snap. "Because spoiler alert—he wasn't."

"Girl, I'm going to need to hear that tea," she says, practically buzzing with curiosity.

"Everyone wants the tea once they find out I used to date the most famous actor on the planet," I mutter, leaning back against the hospital bed. "Like, oh wow, you mean that guy? The one with the perfect smile and the Hollywood swagger? Yeah, it's not as glamorous as you'd think."

Her eyes widen. "Wait, so he was actually—like—awful?"

I let out a dry laugh. "Awful doesn't even begin to cover it. You know how everyone sees the charming, philanthropic sweetheart? That's PR. The real Travis? He ran the second things got hard. Fame first, feelings later. Or, in my case, never."

"Girl, you've got stories," she says, pulling up a chair like she's settling in for a Netflix binge.

"Stories I'm too exhausted to tell," I reply. "Now if you don't mind, I need to figure out how the hell to survive this hospital stay and get back to my kid."

I grab the remote and turn on the TV, hoping for something mindless to distract me. Instead, I'm greeted by the all-too-familiar sight of Travis's smug face in one of his blockbuster action movies. Redline Operations. Of course.

"How is this man so famous?! He got his first real role, what, three years ago? And now he's in everything!" I say, my voice dripping with exasperation.

The nurse chuckles. "Yeah, but Redline Operations is so good," she says, her eyes lighting up. "The way he handles those stunts? Chef's kiss."

I stare at her, incredulous. "Do you worship him or something? Are you about to tell me you know every movie and TV show he's ever been in?"

She shifts awkwardly, shrugging with a sheepish grin. "I'm... not not a fan."

I groan and drop the remote on the bed beside me. "I think I'm the only person on this planet who doesn't like him."

"Well, he is kind of a big deal," she says, clearly trying to lighten the mood.

"Trust me," I say, shooting the TV an irritated glare. "He's a bigger deal to himself than anyone else."

"Taylor?" His voice cuts through the air like nails on a chalkboard, making my ears ache.

I don't even look up. "Go to hell, Travis."

"Well, that's one way to greet someone," he says, his tone laced with false amusement.

I finally glance at him, my eyes narrowing. "Why are you here? Haven't you caused enough damage for one lifetime?"

He shoves his hands into his pockets, leaning casually against the doorframe like this is just another day. "I heard you were sick. Thought I'd check on you."

"Don't act like you care," I snap, my voice hoarse but biting. "You don't get to waltz in here and play the concerned ex."

"Taylor," he says, his voice dropping, almost pleading. "I just—"

"Where is Zoë?" I demand, my voice cracking from exhaustion and anger.

"Your daughter?" Travis asks, his brows knitting together like he's confused.

I glare at him, my patience snapping. "No, Zooey Deschanel. YES, my daughter, you dumbass!"

He flinches, clearly not expecting the venom in my tone. "She's fine, Taylor. I made sure she's being looked after—"

"By who?" I interrupt, my fists clenching the thin hospital blanket. "Because last time I checked, you couldn't even look after yourself, let alone someone else."

He sighs, his shoulders slumping. "She's safe. That's all that matters right now."

"No," I snap. "What matters is that you're not giving me straight answers. Who has her, Travis? Where is she?"

He hesitates, his jaw tightening, and that's when I realize he's either stalling or hiding something.

"Uh... me?" he says, his voice small and almost unsure, like he knows he just stepped on a landmine.

"YOU?!" I nearly leap out of the bed, only the IV tugging at my arm keeping me in place. My chest tightens with rage, and I feel my pulse thudding in my temples.

"Well... I'm her dad," he says, holding his hands up defensively. "I figured—"

"You figured very... VERY wrong," I hiss, cutting him off before he can dig himself into a deeper hole. "You're her dad in biology only, Travis. That's not a title you get to use whenever it's convenient for you."

He stares at me, looking slightly wounded, but I don't care. His good intentions mean nothing when he walked away from both of us years ago.

"I didn't know what else to do," he says after a long silence, his voice softer now. "She was scared, Taylor. She needed someone, and—"

"And you thought that someone could be you?" I laugh bitterly, but it hurts my throat. "You don't know her, Travis. She doesn't know you. You don't get to just walk in and decide you're suddenly father of the year because I collapsed in the middle of a diner!"

"I mean, I'm barely watching her, if that helps," he says with an awkward shrug, like he's proud of the world's worst confession.

I stare at him, mouth agape. "Oh my god. That's wonderful! Absolutely wonderful! Let's just hand her over to someone who 'barely' cares!"

He raises his hands defensively. "I have a nanny watching her, dear god. I hired them off one of those fancy websites. Apparently, she cooks and cleans and can crochet."

I blink at him, incredulous. "Because crocheting will solve all the problems right now, right? That's exactly what my daughter needs—a scarf and a pot roast while her mom's in a damn quarantine ward!"

"You're in the ICU, not quarantine, technically," Travis corrects, smug as ever.

I glare at him, my exhaustion no match for my fury. "If I had the energy, I would break so many parts of your body, and I'd start with the one you enjoy the most."

"Hey, uncool!" He winces dramatically. "I already broke a rib two weeks ago!"

"Did you do your own stunt like a dumbass?"

"It looked so cool!" he says, grinning like he's proud of himself.

I throw my hands up weakly. "Of course it did. God forbid you let a professional handle something."

"My stunt double is ugly. I'm just doing the movie justice," Travis smirks, crossing his arms like he's proud of himself.

"You don't even see the stunt double's face! Wait—why am I arguing about this?" I shake my head, snapping back to reality. "Is she okay?!"

"Oh my god, Taylor, chill. She's okay," he says, waving me off. "We even got her a change of clothes. Damn, buy clothes that fit the girl."

"I was gonna go to the Salvation Army today," I snap, my voice dripping with sarcasm, "but no! Had to almost die instead."

"Salvation Army? You're still as broke as a joke," he says, laughing like it's a cute little quip.

"Funny coming from you," I shoot back, narrowing my eyes. "Someone who would go to Goodwill with me and help me pick out a new sweater while trying to find a sweatshirt you could fit into."

He smirks, leaning casually against the wall like he owns the place. "I saved every tip I got to get you that shitty sewing machine, remember?"

"Don't make it sentimental," I snap, crossing my arms and turning my head to look at the ceiling instead of him. The last thing I need is for his stupid charm to make me forget how much of an ass he is.

"Look, I want to help you. You're pissed, I'm not happy with you either...we both maybe have some regrets," Travis says, his voice softening, but there's an edge to it, like he knows he's walking on thin ice.

"Regrets? I have no regrets. What the hell kind of regrets would I have?" I shoot back, my voice sharp and defensive, my stomach churning with anger and frustration.

"Do you—" Travis pauses, clearly unsure of how to continue. "You know what? I'll be the bigger person here."

"The bigger person? I'm going to fucking kill you!" I snap, the words laced with more venom than I intended. My body is still weak, but the rage makes it feel like I could run a marathon.

Before he can respond, I swing my legs off the bed and try to stand, the room spinning in protest. I feel lightheaded, but that doesn't stop me—I can't sit here anymore. I'm not going to be stuck in this bed, surrounded by machines and beeping alarms, with him of all people standing there like he's got all the answers.

My heart starts to race, the pressure in my chest growing as the room tilts further out of control. I feel like I'm going to collapse, but I rip one of the IV lines out of my arm, the sharp pull of the needle and tubing making me wince. The machines start beeping erratically, and I hear the frantic sound of footsteps pounding down the hallway.

"Taylor! Stop!" the nurse yells as she rushes in, eyes wide with alarm. But I can't stop now—not when I'm this angry, this determined to get away from everything, from everyone.

"I'm fine! Just let me go!" I yell, struggling against her as she tries to push me back onto the bed. My heart is hammering in my chest, each beat feeling like it's about to break me.

Travis steps forward, his face tight with concern but also with the familiar frustration I've seen all too many times. "Like hell you're fine," he mutters, moving to stand beside the nurse, trying to hold me back, but I fight against him, desperate to make some sort of escape from this suffocating place.

The machines keep beeping, the sound sharp and grating in my ears, and my head spins, threatening to pull me under.

The nurses move quickly, and before I can protest, one of them reaches for my wrists, forcing them down onto the bed with a restraint belt. My heart pounds even harder in my chest, the fabric of the belt biting into my skin as it tightens.

"Stop!" I shout, my voice cracking with panic. "I'm fine! I don't need this!" But the nurses don't listen. They're too focused on securing me, their hands quick and professional, like they've done this countless times before.

I thrash against them, trying to break free, my body still trembling from the fever and the exhaustion, but it's no use. My muscles feel weak, drained, like the fight's already been taken out of me. I want to scream, but the pressure in my chest is suffocating, my breath coming in shallow gasps.

Travis stands off to the side, his face a mixture of guilt and frustration. "Taylor, this isn't helping," he says quietly, though there's no anger in his voice, just something like regret. He knows this isn't how it was supposed to be.

But I don't care. I don't care about his regret or his guilt. I just want out of here.

"Just leave me alone!" I shout at him, my eyes wild. "All of you just leave me alone!"

The nurse checks the restraints one more time before stepping back, giving me space but still watching me closely. The room feels smaller, suffocating, as if the walls are closing in around me.

Travis stands there, his jaw clenched, eyes narrowed in frustration. "Look, I don't want to be here either, but you're giving me no choice. You can barely keep yourself together, and your kid needs someone who can actually care for her right now."

I feel a lump form in my throat, the words biting deep. "I don't need you telling me how to raise my kid, Travis. I'm not asking for your help, I didn't want it then, and I don't want it now."

"You don't have a choice," he shoots back, his tone now sharper, more firm. "I'm not giving you options here. You can barely stand, and you're trying to pull this crap by yourself when it's obvious you can't. So either you trust me with her, or you let the state take over. And believe me, that's the last thing I want."

I pull myself up slightly in the bed, the motion making the room spin a bit, but I refuse to show him weakness. "You're really gonna pull the 'CPS' card on me? You think I need a lecture about being a bad mother?"

"No," he says, his voice still carrying an edge of urgency. "I think you're struggling, and I think you're scared."

His words hit too close to the truth, and I can't help but flinch. My head is spinning—not just from the fever, but from the reality of what he's saying. I glance away from him, trying to regain my composure, but everything feels off-balance.

"I'll take her," he continues, not giving me the chance to respond, his voice now more resolute. "I don't want this to be a thing but I'm not letting CPS get involved. You can yell at me all you want, but I'm doing this because it's the right thing to do. Not because I want to."

I want to tell him to leave, to tell him to mind his own damn business, but I can't. The thought of Zoë being alone, of being placed in some stranger's hands—it terrifies me. "You're about three years late on doing the right thing."

"I'll be back tomorrow after filming. Just... try to get some rest."

The door clicks shut behind him, and I'm left alone, torn between the desire to fight him off and the unsettling relief that comes with knowing Zoë might actually be safe for once. The silence in the room feels suffocating, and all I want to do is escape from this reality, but I can't.

—————Author's Note:

🧂

No one will play Fortnite with me :(