Dr. Adrian Bishop. I typed it into the search bar the way you’d type a stranger’s name, which felt, in that moment, uncomfortably close to the truth.
The first several results were unremarkable — a professional directory listing, an old university alumni page, a photo from some hospital gala three years back where he stood in a rented tuxedo looking exactly as handsome and exactly as guarded as he always did in photographs.
Then I found a review page. A private practice, separate from the hospital, with an address I didn’t recognize on the outskirts of Ashgrove, past the old grain silos where the town thinned out into farmland.
I scrolled through the reviews expecting nothing in particular. What I found instead made my stomach tighten in a way I wasn’t prepared for.
Every single review was written by a woman.
“Adrian changed my life,” one said. “I walked in terrified and walked out feeling like myself again for the first time in years.”
“He made me feel beautiful again, when I’d stopped believing that was possible.”
“My husband still doesn’t know I went to him. I don’t think I’ll ever tell him. Some things are just mine.”
One review, shorter than the rest, stopped me completely.
“Ladies, trust me. Adrian is worth every penny, and worth every secret it takes to see him.”
I sat with that for a long time after that, my coffee going cold, my hands not quite steady on the keyboard. I told myself, out loud, in an empty kitchen, that there was a reasonable explanation. Maybe he specialized in some kind of women’s health procedure I’d simply never had a detailed conversation about. Maybe the secrecy was patient confidentiality, nothing more sinister than professional discretion.
I almost believed myself. Almost.
I scrolled further down the review page, past a dozen more entries that followed the same strange, reverent pattern, until one caught my eye for a different reason entirely.
“I drove two hours to see him, because a friend told me it was worth it. She was right. Whatever you’ve heard about how private this place is, believe it — it’s private for a reason, and once you’re in that waiting room, you’ll understand why.”
Another, shorter still, sent a chill through me I couldn’t quite explain: “Don’t Google too much before you go. Just trust that he knows exactly what he’s doing, and exactly why the secrecy matters.”
I closed the laptop for a moment, my heart going faster than the situation, on its face, should have warranted. Then I opened it again and booked the appointment anyway, using my maiden name, Elena Ford, telling myself it was a harmless joke — that I’d see for myself exactly what “Dr. Bishop” did behind closed doors, and laugh about it with him later, over the anniversary dinner we still technically owed each other.
