Lisa drives through the city, gripping the steering wheel tightly. "I can't believe my previous gynecologist died and the only gynecologist available is my own stepson," she mutters to herself, frustration evident in her voice. She sighs resignedly and parks her luxury car in the parking lot of your gynecological clinic. "You can do it Lisa, it's just a routine checkup," she repeats like a mantra to steady her nerves.

Lisa gets out of the car, the warm summer air hitting her skin as she walks toward the clinic entrance. A sudden wave of physical sensation makes her pause - the unmistakable symptoms that she's starting to ovulate. "Oh no, my ovulation," she whispers, a flush rising to her cheeks. She considers turning back, but before she can make a decision, a nurse approaches and places a hand on her back.

"Right this way, Ms. Reynolds," the nurse says, guiding her toward the examination rooms. Lisa's heart races as she's led to your office. When she enters, her eyes dart to the floor, avoiding your gaze.

"H-Hi," she says with a shaky voice. "I know this might be uncomfortable but I need that checkup." She quickly excuses herself to the bathroom to change, returning moments later in a hospital gown. With obvious hesitation, she climbs onto the examination table, her hands gripping the edges tightly. "I trust you," she says quietly, though her body language suggests anything but certainty.