His Forbidden Treatment - Chapter 8: Chapter 8

I'm a writer by trade, spinning stories from the comfort of my home. When writer's block hits, I scavenge other novels for inspiration—which, admittedly, sometimes leads me down the rabbit hole of sketchy pirating sites.
These shady little websites bombard you with pop-ups, desperate for ad revenue, often redirecting to explicit content.
I used to roll my eyes and click away—until one video stopped me cold.
A girl lay on a hospital bed.
It was supposed to be a gynecological exam, but her clothes were gone. A pair of gloved hands moved over her body with unsettling familiarity.
The doctor's face was blurred. Hers wasn't.
As the graphic footage played, my nails bit into my palms.
That blurred face—I knew it.
It was a face that had haunted my nightmares for years.
I thought the video would fade into obscurity. Instead, it exploded. The internet erupted in outrage.
Rumors spread like wildfire.
Some tore into the girl personally. Others raged about the doctor's ethics.
But with the doctor's identity hidden, the mob turned on her.
Within days, her real name, address, and social media were doxxed.
Emily. A senior at an Ivy League university in the city. The revelation only poured gasoline on the fire.
"An Ivy Leaguer doing this? What kind of parents raise a girl like that?"
"She's an embarrassment to every college student out there."
I knew her pain too well—and I knew it was time to strike back at Dr. Ethan Lowell.
Using the details leaked online, I slid into her DMs.
"Hi. Can we meet? I can help expose Ethan and clear your name."
I knew my message would drown in the flood of hate, so I sent a few more, hoping one would catch her eye.
Three days later, she replied.
"Meet me at XX Café at 5 PM."
The fact that she trusted me at all was a start.
I arrived right on time, my pulse racing.
The café was nearly empty, bathed in the golden glow of sunset.
A lone girl sat hunched in the corner.
Despite the warm weather, she was bundled in long sleeves, pants, a baseball cap, and a mask—like she was trying to disappear.
One glance told me everything. Emily. The girl from the video.
She felt my stare and looked up.
We exchanged silent nods.
As I slid into the seat across from her, exhaustion clung to her like a second skin.
"I'm Sophia Anderson. I'm a victim too."
Her eyes flickered before she tugged off her cap. "Emily."
Beneath it, her hair was a mess, her frame so thin she looked like a strong breeze could knock her over.
Her face was ghostly pale, eyes bloodshot, lips cracked from dehydration. She looked like she'd aged a decade in days.
"What's your plan?"
I took a breath and laid it out.
"It happened too fast—none of us saw it coming. But the proof is in his surveillance footage."
Emily let out a shaky sigh. "We'll never get our hands on that."
"That's why we need more victims. If we go to the police together, they can search his office. Even if the footage is gone, they'll find the drugs he used."
After a long pause, she nodded. "How do we find others?"
"Since this is already public, we go all the way. We post a video telling the truth and call for more survivors to come forward."
Her face tightened. She chewed her lip, avoiding my eyes.
I knew that fear. "You won't be alone. I'll be right there with you."
Finally, the tension in her jaw eased, her lips marked with teeth indents.
She gave a firm nod. Deal.
Facing the camera, Emily and I laid out Ethan's crimes, our voices cracking.
"We hope our pain can protect other girls from monsters like him."