Chapter 5: Cracks in the Armor

POV: Dr. Clara Bennett

Harrison’s fingers gripped the steering wheel of his Mercedes so tightly his knuckles turned gray under the yellow streetlights of Lake Shore Drive. The silence inside the car was thick, heavy, and suffocating.

“He’s bluffing,” Harrison muttered, his voice flat as he stared at the frozen asphalt ahead. “The board won’t listen to a dead man. I’ve run Sterling Logistics for three years. I brought the revenue up fifteen percent.”

I turned my head to look at him, keeping my arms crossed over my silk gown. “Harrison, if he has proof of who he is”

“I don’t care who he is!” Harrison snapped, slamming his palm against the leather wheel.

I flinched back against the passenger seat.

Immediately, Harrison let out a heavy breath, pulling the car to a stop at a red light. He reached across the console, wrapping his fingers around my hand. His touch was cold, precise, and tight.

“Forgive me, Clara,” he said softly, smoothing his thumb over the giant diamond on my ring finger. “I didn’t mean to raise my voice. It’s just… the timing. Tonight was supposed to be about us. I won’t let him ruin what we built.”

I looked at Harrison’s handsome, polished profile. Three hours ago, I saw him as my sanctuary. Now, with Tristan’s low whisper still echoing in my ears, he doesn’t love you; he collects pretty things. A cold seed of doubt planted itself deep in my stomach.

“It’s fine,” I whispered, pulling my hand away gently under the guise of adjusting my coat. “I just need to sleep. I have an early shift in the trauma bay tomorrow.”

“Of course,” Harrison murmured, pulling the car up to the front entrance of my apartment building. “I’ll have my team handle the press. You focus on your work.”

He didn’t get out to open my door. He was already picking up his phone to dial his legal counsel before I even unbuckled my seatbelt.

The next morning, the hospital hummed with its usual frantic energy. The smell of floor disinfectant and lukewarm coffee filled the hallway as I adjusted my stethoscope around my neck.

“You’re late,” Sophie said, stepping up beside me near the nurse’s station with two foam cups. She pressed one into my hands, her eyes bright with wild curiosity. “And don’t try to lie to me, Clara. It is on the front page of every paper in the Midwest.”

She held up her tablet. The headline burned in bold black text: THE RETURN OF TRISTAN STERLING: DEAD HEIR CRASHES STERLING ENGAGEMENT.

Right below it was a crystal-clear photo of Tristan walking through the hotel doors, looking dark, lethal, and impossibly powerful.

“My phone hasn’t stopped ringing,” I said quietly, taking a fast sip of coffee. “Harrison’s public relations team wants me to issue a statement saying I don’t know Tristan.”

“Well, you don’t know him, right?” Sophie asked, tilting her head as she watched my face closely. “You just saved a random guy three years ago… wait. Clara. Tell me that wasn’t him.”

Before I could answer, the double glass doors of the ER lobby slid open.

Two men in crisp dark blue suits stepped inside, carrying three massive wooden crates overflowing with rare, long-stemmed white orchids. The murmur of the waiting room ground to a sudden halt as every nurse, patient, and doctor turned to look.

“Dr. Clara Bennett?” the lead delivery man called out, scanning the floor.

“That’s… that’s me,” I said, stepping forward with a frown.

“These were delivered personally for your office, Doctor,” the man said, setting the heavy crates down near the reception desk. “Compliments of our client.”

Sophie reached into the middle crate, pulling out a heavy, matte-black card sealed with silver wax. She handed it to me, her eyes wide. “Who sends three hundred dollars worth of rare orchids to an emergency room?”

My fingers trembled slightly as I broke the silver seal and pulled out the small card. Inside, written in a dark, decisive, elegant script, were just two lines:

Your hands were cold last night.

Keep warm, Clara.

— T.S.

Beneath the note in the bottom crate sat a sleek, dark thermos of hot roasted coffee from the tiny espresso shop three blocks from my apartment, the one Harrison always called “too unrefined.”

My heart gave a heavy, unpredictable thud against my ribs.

“Who is T.S.?” Sophie whispered, leaning over my shoulder.

I quickly folded the card, shoving it deep into the pocket of my white lab coat before she could read it.

“Nobody,” I said, my voice tight as I looked toward the snow sweeping past the glass hospital entrance outside. “Just a ghost.”