My fiancé married my best friend while I was in Paris,

The clinical wing of the Richard & Althia Cardiovascular Innovation Institute was silent in the evening hours, save for the rhythmic, soothing hum of state-of-the-art monitors.

Richard Sterling had been moved to the presidential recovery suite on the top floor. His recovery had been nothing short of miraculous. His chest incision was healing cleanly; his cardiac output was robust; his color had fully returned.

I sat in the armchair beside his bed, reviewing his latest blood panels on my tablet.

Richard watched me over the rim of his reading glasses, a gentle, paternal smile warming his face.

“You’re still working,” he observed. “It’s eight o’clock on a Friday night, Althia. You own the hospital now. You can order someone else to read those labs.”

“Old habits die hard, Richard,” I said, smiling faintly without looking up. “And your potassium is three-point-eight. I’m having the nurse add forty milliequivalents to your IV bag.”

Richard let out a soft, deep chuckle. Then his expression softened, turning serious.

“Arthur told me today that Preston’s legal defense team approached him for a plea deal,” Richard said quietly.

I paused, looking up from the screen. “Are you going to accept it?”

Richard looked out the floor-to-ceiling windows, overlooking the glittering expanse of Central Park.

“I spent thirty years building an empire, Althia,” Richard said, his voice heavy with the quiet sorrow of a father who had outlived his hopes for his lineage. “I thought I was building it for my son. But an empire built on rotten foundations must be torn down. I told Arthur to pursue maximum sentencing. Depraved indifference. Conspiracy to commit corporate fraud. He will serve his time.”

He reached out and covered my hand with his weathered fingers.

“I only have one regret,” Richard whispered.

“What is that?”

“That my bloodline cost you three years of your life.”

“It didn’t cost me three years, Richard,” I said, squeezing his hand firmly. “It bought me my freedom. It showed me exactly who I am.”

A soft knock sounded at the door.

Julian Vance stepped into the suite. He had shed his white coat, wearing a charcoal wool sweater and dark trousers. He held two cardboard cups of coffee from the little Italian bakery down the block—the only place that made the dark roast I liked.

“Am I interrupting the board meeting?” Julian asked, a warm, easy smile crinkling the corners of his dark eyes.

“Not at all,” Richard said, his eyes darting between Julian and me with a knowing, approving sparkle. “In fact, Dr. Vance, you’re just in time to take this stubborn woman out of my hospital. She’s been terrorizing my nursing staff about potassium levels for three hours.”

I laughed—a genuine, light sound that felt entirely foreign yet profoundly welcome in my throat.

Julian walked over, handing me a cup. His fingers brushed against mine—warm, steady, deliberate. An electric spark danced across my skin, sharp and sweet.

“I have a table reserved at Le Bernardin in forty minutes,” Julian said, his gaze holding mine with an intensity that made my pulse race faster than any surgical emergency. “The chef has prepared the tasting menu. But if you prefer to stay here and critique postoperative electrocardiograms, I suppose I can reschedule.”

I stood up, handing my tablet to Richard with a flourish.

“Richard, if your arterial pressure spikes while I am gone, Marcus Keller is on call.”