His Games, Her Rules

ROBYN

“Robyn, working a million shifts and avoiding the real world isn’t going to get you laid. You need to get out, have fun, and since today is my birthday, you officially have no excuse.”

Monique’s voice is chirpy through my earbuds as she delivers her latest rant.

 I want to argue. To remind her—for the millionth time—that I’m fine just the way I am and that I don’t need a man. But I clamp my mouth shut instead. There’s no point. Because the moment I walk through the door, she’ll be waiting to remind me again that my s*x life is a tragedy.

 So instead, I go for the path of least resistance. “Sure thing, Mom. Loud and clear.”

 “You’re being sarcastic, aren’t you?”

 I smirk, already picturing her biting her nail like she always does when she’s amused. “Something like that.”

“Robyn—”

 “Yeah, yeah. I need to get out and get laid. Got it. We’ll talk later.” I hang up before she can start another speech, exhaling as I shut my eyes for a second.

 Jesus, can y’all let me breathe?

 I refocus on my report as Katy Perry’s Roar blasts through my earbuds. Humming along to the lyrics, I’m halfway through jotting down notes when a pale hand enters my vision, knocking lightly on the desk.

 My head snaps up.

 A pair of sharp green eyes meet mine.

 “Sh*t,” I blurt, yanking out one earbud. “You scared the hell out of me.”

 The man in front of me stands with an easy confidence, hands tucked into the pockets of his lab coat. A small smirk plays on his lips. “You’ve got a mouth on you, huh?”

 “Uh, who are you?” I ask, giving him a quick once-over.

 He’s tall. Blonde. Broad-shouldered. Fine. The kind of fine that makes you momentarily reconsider your stance on workplace hookups.

 But I don’t do those.

 So, moving on.

 “I’m Doctor Sanders,” he says, glancing me over just as quickly.

 Doctor? Interesting.

 “Oh. I’m Robyn. Robyn Denver. I’m a practical nurse here.”

 “Yeah, I know. I called your name three times while you were humming loud enough for the entire floor to hear.” His expression is unreadable.

 I cringe slightly. “Sorry, earbuds.”

 He nods. “You’re pretty popular around here.”

 “Is that so?”

 “Sort of.” He exhales, getting to the point. “I’ll be taking over from Doctor Ricci, so you’ll be working with me from now on.”

 That gets my attention. “Wait—what happened to Dr. Ricci?”

 “Transferred. I’m in charge now.”

 “And he’s gone? Just like that?”

 Doctor Sanders tilts his head. “Were you two dating?”

 I snort. Over my dead body would I date that dog.

 “What? No.” I drop my pen on the desk. “Do you need something, or did you just come to interrogate me?”

 A ghost of a smile flickers on his face. “I need you to take a patient’s blood sample. And please be careful.”

 I arch a brow. “Careful?”

 “Dr. Ricci told me about your work here.”

 “Did he?” I ask as I push back my chair.

 Doctor Sanders and I step out of the nurses’ station, walking side by side.

 “Not all of it was good,” he adds casually.

 Of course. Why am I not surprised?

 I used to root for Doctor Ricci. For a while, he was my favorite doctor in this hospital—until he f*ck*d things up.

 He was hot, and I knew for a fact he was a man-sl*t, but he was great. Good-looking, charming, and d*mn near worshiped by every female nurse and a few doctors. Even the hospital president adored him.

 But beneath all that charisma? He was an arrogant pervert.

 “And after the blood sample, prep yourself—you’re joining me in surgery.”

 Doctor Sanders’ voice pulls me from my thoughts. Before I can protest, he flashes a small smile and disappears around the corner.

 F*ck my life.

 The patient whose blood sample I need to take is a guy in his mid-twenties. After dropping it off at the lab, I head to prep for surgery with the new doctor.

 As I watch him work, I start humming Roar under my breath. It’s my stress-relief song. Whenever work piles up or things feel overwhelming, I turn to this song because it reminds me of who I used to be before I moved to New York.

 Doctor Sanders isn’t so bad. He’s like Ricci, but without the unnecessary flirting, which is a relief. When Ricci was here, he never passed up a chance to flirt with the nurses or residents—sometimes taking it too far. I f*ck*ng despised him. But since he was a d*mn good surgeon, people turned a blind eye.

 Doctor Sanders, on the other hand, is quiet. In the few hours I’ve worked with him, we’ve barely spoken, which, honestly, is a refreshing change. Ricci was arrogant, loud, and loved hearing himself talk, even when he was completely off-topic.

 “Robyn, can you stop?”

 I blink. “Stop what?”

 He sighs. “The humming. And the foot-tapping. You sound like an old woman trying to keep a beat.”

 I snort. “Who cares?”

 “I do. I can’t concentrate with all that noise—it’s like a d*mn kettle whistling in my ear.” His slight Scottish accent makes the complaint sound almost amusing.

 I roll my eyes. “I hum when I’m stressed.”

 He exhales heavily, clearly holding back from rubbing his temple. I smirk.

 “Are you okay, Doc?” I ask, my tone dripping with mockery.

 He ignores me.

 “Sure thing, Sandals,” I mutter, just loud enough for him to hear.

 “Sanders,” he corrects. “And it’s Doctor Sanders to you. Not Sanders. Not Sandals.”

 “Got it, Doctor Sandals,” I say, smirking.

 He groans, shaking his head before returning to work. At this rate, he’ll be handing in his resignation by tomorrow.

 Then, out of nowhere, he asks, “Do you have a boyfriend, Robyn?”

 I pause, biting the inside of my cheek. “No. Why?”

 “Just wondering how anyone puts up with your loud humming. I’ve only known you a few hours, and I already feel like quitting medicine entirely.”

 I snort, shaking my head. “I am a fun person, you know. I just try to stay positive. Apparently, that annoys a lot of people.”

 “Yeah, well, a lot of the nurses here don’t like you,” he says bluntly. “They think you’re too optimistic—like you pretend to see the good in every situation.”

 I roll my eyes. “And?”

 He shrugs. “And… you’re probably the most beautiful nurse in this hospital, so I think they’re just jealous.”

 Oh, d*mn.

 It’s a line he’s probably used before, and if he thinks it’s going to work on me, he’s sorely mistaken.

 Men will say anything to get into a woman’s pants.

 “Relax, Ms. Denver,” he adds before I can say anything. “I’m not flirting with you. I’m a professional, and I like to keep it that way.”

 “Huh-huh,” I hum, unimpressed.

 “Seriously.”

 “Sure thing, Doctor Sandals.”

 He groans loudly. “I take everything I said back.”

 I chuckle, throwing him a sly grin.

 I’ve always loved being a nurse—not just the profession, but the purpose behind it. Helping people, taking care of them when they feel like they won’t make it out alive—it gives me a sense of fulfillment I never had growing up. I may not be a registered nurse yet, but I love what I do.

 I spent my childhood bouncing between countries—middle school in Italy, high school in the UK—before ending up at Stanford University, where I graduated with a business degree. It was one of the best schools in the United States, yet every second I spent there felt like a prison sentence. I wanted to run. To disappear. But I knew my parents’ reach was too wide, their power too strong.

 Still, by my sophomore year, I was desperate. I didn’t know how I was going to do it, but I started making plans. Carefully. Quietly. I had to be smart—I couldn’t leave any trace behind.

 Before New York, Italy was my home. A life of luxury, power, and control. My family’s wealth was generational, their connections untouchable. They had the police, the government, and the entire state in their pockets. They dictated everything—what we wore, what we ate, what we studied, who we loved.

 Being born into wealth might sound like a blessing, but for me, it was suffocating. My father had already decided my future. I was to be his perfectly groomed successor, his right hand in the family business, handling every detail of his empire. And for years, I played my part.

 Until I couldn’t anymore.

 Four years ago, I snapped. I had spent my entire life trapped in a shell, suffocating under their rules, their expectations, their control. And I decided that, for once, I was going to make a choice.

 I was going to leave.

 I was going to take back my life.

 So, on a quiet Sunday morning, I did just that.

 I grabbed a single handbag, stuffed it with as much cash as I could carry, and got into my car. I didn’t say goodbye. I didn’t hesitate. I just drove.

 I threw my phone out the window the moment I passed the city limits. My credit cards, my ID—gone. I didn’t need them. I didn’t want them. I never looked back.

 Then, I arrived in New York.

 For the first time in my life, I could breathe.

 I told myself that this was my fresh start—that I had escaped hell, and I was going to build something better. Something mine.

 Within a week, I had found an apartment and enrolled in nursing school.

 And then I met Monique.

 She’s more than just my roommate—she’s my best friend. The best thing that’s happened to me in a long time. And even though she doesn’t know who I really am or where I come from, I’ve made sure of that.

 Because my past? My family?

 They can never find me.

 And I’ll do whatever it takes to keep it that way.

 Today is Monique’s birthday, and I’m supposed to pick up her cake from her favorite bakery after my shift at the hospital.

 After quickly changing out of my scrubs, I throw on a cream-colored sweater, black jeans, and white sneakers. My hair goes up in a loose ponytail as I grab my handbag and rush out, waving at Tiwa, my friend and fellow nurse, on my way out.

 Slipping into my car, I pull out of the hospital parking lot and head straight to the bakery. Monique’s cake is already waiting when I get there. I pay, thank the bakery owner, and hurry out, balancing the cake carefully as I walk to my car.

 My next stop is the mall—Monique’s birthday present is waiting for pickup.

 Inside, I head straight for the jewelry store. The salesperson greets me as I collect the customized diamond necklace I had ordered. Monique had seen it online and loved it, but she never got it for herself—too expensive, in her words. “There are better things to do with money.” But Monique deserves something special, and I know she’ll love it.

 I pay, grab the receipt, and leave the mall, feeling satisfied.

 Sliding into my car, I toss my handbag onto the passenger seat, carefully place Monique’s gift beside her cake, and start the engine. I put the car in reverse, ready to back out.

 Then—

 BANG.

 A loud impact shakes my car, followed by the blaring screech of a car alarm.

 I slam the brakes.

 Oh, sh*t. Did I just hit something?

 “Oh, God. What have you done, Robyn?” I whisper to myself, heart hammering.

 My instincts scream at me to flee, to step on the gas and get the hell out of here before the owner notices. But instead, my foot presses the wrong pedal.

 I step on the gas.

 BANG.

 I hit the car again.

 I frown, looking down at my feet. What the hell?

 “F*ck,” I mutter, shaking my head. How the hell did I pass my driving lessons?

 Oh, right. I didn’t.

 My father never believed in driving lessons—not when he could throw expensive cars at his children and tell us to “figure sh*t out.”

 I groan, my hands gripping the wheel as I glance at the rearview mirror.

 And then I see him.

 A figure steps out of the backseat of the car I just hit.

 Tall.

 Broad-shouldered.

 Expensive black dress shoes hit the pavement first, followed by the sharp buttoning of a tailored suit jacket.

 I swallow hard.

 No. No, no, no, please, not the Royce.

 It’s the freaking Rolls Royce.

 The new model. The expensive model.

 Compared to my 2010 Toyota Camry, I might as well have crashed into a spaceship.

 A sinking feeling settles in my stomach. This car? This obscenely luxurious car? It obviously belongs to someone rich. Someone powerful.

 My mind flashes back to Italy. To home. To the kind of men I grew up around—men with wealth and influence, men who could ruin lives with a single phone call.

 My instincts scream run.

 The first thing I notice—besides his obvious height—is how insanely attractive he is.

 He looks like he just walked out of a high-end fashion campaign. Golden skin, sharp cheekbones, dark brown hair styled to perfection. His features are almost too perfect—his nose, straight as if carved from marble, his lips a deep shade of red.

 But it’s his eyes that do me in.

 A striking, icy blue—so intense, it feels like they could see right through me.

 I stare, momentarily stunned.

 Who the hell is this man?

 He glares at me through my side mirror. Not amused.

 My heart pounds.

 He approaches my car, his steps slow, calculated. When he reaches my driver’s window, he knocks—once, firmly.

 I flinch.

 His lips move. “Roll down the window, will you?”

 I stare at him. Then, very slowly, I shake my head.

 I don’t know who he is, but I know one thing for sure—he’s dangerous.

 Powerful.

 The air around him radiates authority, the kind of quiet dominance that people don’t question.

 He knocks again—harder this time.

 “Roll down the f*ck*ng window, will you?”

 I gulp.

 His patience is thin. His stare is lethal. He looks like he’s seconds away from ripping the door off its hinges.

 The way he looks at me—sharp, impatient, and utterly unimpressed—makes my nerves skyrocket.

 And that’s when I know.

 I need to get the hell out of here.

 Without thinking, I slam my foot on the accelerator and speed out of the parking lot—far, far away from the hot, furious stranger in the expensive car.