Five

My lunch sits on the table—cold, limp, and sad-looking—as I scroll through article after article on my phone. All about Dominique Voss and his empire.

There’s not much about his personal life—just that he’s thirty-two, born and raised in New York, with an Italian mother and a French-American father. I’ve skimmed at least a dozen articles, and nothing about his life stands out… except the part where he’s absurdly rich and owns a ridiculous number of properties across the country.

I scroll through several photos—him in different custom-tailored suits that probably cost more than my rent for a year—and pause. How the hell is this man thirty-two? He looks twenty-eight. Not a single flaw on his face, not even in candids. And honestly? He looks better in real life than in photos. I’ll give him that.

Still, the man never smiles—not even in pictures. There’s something simmering behind that stoic expression, something distant and unreadable. Secrets. Shadows.

And for some twisted reason, that makes him even sexier.

It’s been over a week since our conversation, but I can’t stop replaying it. The way he said I was “indebted” to him. That word has been stuck in my head like a splinter I can’t pull out.

I don’t know him. But there’s something about him I can’t stop thinking about.

I lock my phone and drop it on the table, groaning into my palms.

What have you gotten yourself into, Robyn?

“Trouble in paradise?” comes a familiar Scottish voice.

I glance up to see Dr. Sanders pulling out the chair across from me and sitting down with one of his rare smiles, pushing up the sleeves of his lab coat.

“There’s no paradise,” I reply dryly.

“That’s right,” he says. “You told me you weren’t in a relationship. I wonder why.”

I raise an eyebrow and bite the inside of my cheek, glancing around the cafeteria. It’s lunchtime, and I still haven’t touched my food. Today was hectic, and—as usual—I overworked myself.

I look back at him. “Since you’re so curious… relationships aren’t exactly a priority right now.”

“I wonder why,” he murmurs, leaning back in his chair and studying me. “I half-expected you to say, ‘Men are scum’ or ‘Men are full of shit.’”

I let out a low laugh. “Right.” I roll my eyes, licking my bottom lip.

“How are you holding up?”

“I’m fine. Why?”

“Well…” He tilts his head. “It takes a lot of composure to handle the kind of patient we dealt with today. You didn’t even flinch.”

“Oh.”

“You’ve dealt with that kind of case before?”

And by that kind, he means a patient with third-degree burns. A patient who died.

“Sort of.”

Dr. Sanders watches me for a moment and nods.

Today was brutal.

The paramedics brought in a woman—burned beyond recognition. They found her in an apartment engulfed in flames. The man she was with—her supposed lover—was already dead. She was still alive when they pulled her out, barely. The burns were catastrophic.

Dr. Sanders was assigned her case and asked me and two residents to assist with emergency surgery. But she died before we even got her fully prepped.

Later, a woman showed up, crying uncontrollably. She was the patient’s wife.

She said her wife told her she was going on a work trip. But instead, she’d spent the past two days shacked up in a secret apartment—with a man. The same man who’d died beside her.

I was the one who had to tell her.

When Dr. Ricci still worked here, he always assigned me the job of delivering bad news. He used to say I had a way of doing it without making it sound devastating. That I could comfort people, even though—technically—that wasn’t in the job description.

“Who’s your date tomorrow night?” Dr. Sanders asks, pulling me out of my thoughts.

“Date?” I blink. “What’s tomorrow night?”

“You forgot?” He chuckles. “How’s that even possible?”

I squint, mentally flipping through my schedule… and then it hits me.

Oh. Shit.

The party.

He shakes his head, smiling. “Can’t believe it slipped your mind. You must have a lot going on.”

“Not really,” I say. “I just don’t care much about hospital parties. And Saint José doesn’t throw them often.”

“So, who’s your date? Or are you coming solo?”

“I’m coming with a friend,” I reply, folding my arms.

“That’s good to hear.” He pauses, then adds, “If you don’t mind me asking… why did you become a nurse?”

I lean back, studying him. Dr. Sanders is easy to work with—professional, kind, and calm under pressure. He’s also the kind of man people notice. The accent doesn’t hurt either. Deep voice, Scottish lilt, and just enough quiet confidence to make people swoon.

A lot of nurses—and a few doctors—have openly admitted he’s hot. I won’t deny it. He is.

But dating a coworker? Especially in this hospital? A hard no. It’s messy, distracting, and completely unprofessional. Then again… love has a way of ignoring rules.

“I’ve always loved taking care of people,” I say truthfully. “And I like a challenge. Nursing lets me do both. I get to help people going through some of the worst times in their lives and—hopefully—make a difference.”

He nods, thoughtful. “You’re doing well. I’ve seen you in action. I’m proud.”

“Thanks, Dr. Sandals.”

He groans, laughing softly. “For a second there, I thought you’d dropped the awful nickname.”

“Sandals’ isn’t awful.”

“Is that so?”

“Yup.”

He smiles again, about to say something else, but then pauses. His eyes shift past my shoulder. Slowly, he rises from his seat.

“See you at the party tomorrow, Denver.” He gives my shoulder a light pat and walks away.

I find myself watching him go.

“Damn,” a voice says behind me. “Even his walk is sexy.”

I turn to see Noah and Tiwa sliding into the seats across from me.

“Hey, guys.” I give them a small smile.

“What were you and the sexy doctor talking about?” Noah asks, grinning.

“You think everyone is sexy,” I say, rolling my eyes.

“Yeah, well, he actually is,” Noah counters, placing his lunch down. “And I think he likes you more than he lets on.”

I squint at him. “What are you talking about?”

Noah scratches the back of his neck and glances at Tiwa. “Back me up, please.”

Tiwa lifts her hands. “Nope. I’m staying out of this.”

I fold my arms, leaning back. “Why would you even say that?”

Noah shrugs, popping open his Tupperware. “We’ve seen the way he looks at you. He doesn’t look at anyone else like that.”

“Oh? And how would you know, Mr. Observer?”

Noah turns to Tiwa, silently begging for backup—but she suddenly acts like she has no idea what he’s talking about.

“Tiwa knows exactly what I mean,” he says, undeterred. “Look, I know you’re the last person on Earth who’d date someone from Saint José, but Doctor Scottish Accent is seriously hot, and I’m a hundred and ten percent sure he has a crush on you. Like, he likes you.”

He shrugs and takes a big bite of his sandwich like he didn’t just drop that casually.

I roll my eyes, thoroughly uninterested in this particular topic.

“He does look at you longer than anyone else,” Tiwa adds quietly, clearing her throat as she glances at me.

“I don’t care,” I say flatly. “He’s a great guy, and I’m glad you both know that workplace relationships are not my thing.”

“Neither is any kind of relationship,” Tiwa says, arching a brow.

“Wow. Why is everyone suddenly obsessed with my love life? I’m happy being single.”

“We know,” Tiwa says, lifting her hands. “But maybe once in a while… get some of that good stuff. And by good stuff—you know what I mean.”

“She means let a man—”

“I know what she meant, Noah,” I say, cutting him off with a glare from under my lashes.

Noah hums. “Right.”

“I hate it when y’all worry about me. I’m fine. I’m okay. Also, if I wanna get off, I don’t need a man to do it. Call me old-fashioned, I don’t care.”

“Damn. The sex store must be earning a fortune off of you,” Noah mutters behind his water bottle, hiding a smug grin.

Tiwa bursts out laughing, nearly choking. “Fuck,” she wheezes, still giggling.

“Fuck you very much, Noah.”

He sets his water bottle down, smirking. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to be crude. It’s a joke.”

“I’m not mad,” I say, waving him off. “And since you’re both so invested in my sex life, no—I don’t own that many toys. And also, for the millionth time, I appreciate that you care about me, but can we stop bringing up my lack of a partner?”

“Cool,” Tiwa says, throwing her hands up in mock surrender.

“Plus,” I add, eyes narrowing playfully, “you’re both single. Neither of you has a man, but somehow my empty bed is the hottest topic of discussion.”

“Goddamn,” Tiwa mutters, feigning offense and side-eyeing Noah.

“As truthful as that is,” Noah says, “it still hurts like hell. And for the record, I was in a relationship. I broke up with him last month—he was an asshole.”

“Yeah,” Tiwa sighs. “And you know why I haven’t bothered dating. The second I mention I have a daughter, they vanish.”

Tiwa had been pregnant when she moved here. Her ex—also Nigerian—wanted her to get an abortion, but she refused. She wasn’t ready for motherhood, but she wasn’t ready to get rid of an innocent life either.

She raised her daughter on her own, gave her everything, and built a beautiful life. I’m so proud of her.

She’d been in a serious relationship once—at least we thought it was serious—until she found out he was cheating. And not just cheating. He was married. He’d been pretending to be in love with Tiwa while planning a whole wedding with someone else.

We all hated him. Noah and I even came up with a plan to crash the wedding and raise our hands when the priest asked, “Is there anyone who objects?”

Tiwa vetoed the plan.

She said karma would take care of him eventually.

I don’t believe in karma.

But I didn’t tell her that.

“Don’t you think,” Noah says, chewing thoughtfully, “you should maybe not tell these guys about Lola on the first date? Like… wait a week or two before you drop the ‘single mom’ bomb. It’s a turn-off for a lot of men.”

Tiwa doesn’t even flinch. “Lola is part of my life. If a man wants to start a relationship with me, he should know from the start that I’m a mom—and a damn proud one. It’s either he takes it, or he can go fuck himself.”

Noah exhales through his nose and takes another bite of his sandwich, wisely choosing not to argue.

Tiwa looks back at me. “Unlike you, we actually make an effort. We believe there’s a guy out there for us, and we’re willing to take chances—even if we get burned. But you? You don’t even bother meeting anyone.”

She shrugs. “And that’s okay. You’re focused on work. Relationships just aren’t your thing, and we get it. I just want you to know we love you. We’re always gonna support whatever decisions you make.”

“Wow,” I say, arching a brow. “Funny how you said that exact thing two weeks ago—then started pestering me about ‘finding love’ three days later.”

“Shit,” Tiwa mutters, rubbing the back of her neck. “Okay, this time I mean it. No more bugging. I promise. And if I’m being honest? Sex toys give better orgasms than most men anyway.”

Noah promptly chokes on his sandwich.

I lean back, grinning as Tiwa pats his back. He coughs violently, fumbling for his water bottle, and drains it like his life depends on it.

“Jesus,” he rasps. “I wish I could unhear that.”

Tiwa and I burst out laughing.

“Next time, warn me before you say something like that,” Noah says, glaring half-heartedly.

“Oh please. You know it’s true,” I say.

He rolls his eyes and slumps back in his seat.

“You’re coming tomorrow, right?” Tiwa asks, shifting the topic.

“The party? Yeah. I’ll be there. Might show up late, but I’m coming.”

“Of course you’ll be late,” Noah says. “Who’s your date?”

“Is that really necessary? Is there a theme I missed?”

“No,” he says, shrugging. “But you’ll need someone by your side.”

I narrow my eyes at him.

“The point is—everyone’s bringing someone.”

“Not everyone. Dr. Sanders doesn’t look like he’s showing up with a date.”

“Okay, fine,” Tiwa says. “But who’s your date?”

“Monique,” I answer. “I invited her. Since you’re clearly teaming up with Noah, I didn’t want to be the oddball.”

“Right,” Tiwa nods. “The model friend-slash-roommate?”

“The one and only.”

“Cool.”

I pause for a beat, then glance between them. “So… who is the new stockholder? Anyone we know?”

I don’t really care. But curiosity always has a way of slipping in.

“No clue,” Tiwa says. “All I’ve heard is he’s some self-made billionaire. That’s it. We’ll find out tomorrow night.”

“Right,” I murmur.

***

“Why would Saint José even need a new stockholder?” Monique asks, adjusting the rearview mirror so she can check her reflection while applying another coat of lipstick.

We’re parked in the hospital lot, both of us fully dressed but emotionally unprepared for this night.

“I’m the last person you should ask,” I say, brushing imaginary lint off my dress. “I barely know what’s happening beyond my floor. All I care about are my patients.”

“Of course,” Monique mutters sarcastically, smacking her lips together.

“Is that Fenty?” I ask, snatching the lipstick from her to touch up my own already-painted lips, turning the mirror toward me.

“Yep. Got it yesterday. It smells so good,” she says, leaning in again to fluff her curls, making them look even fuller.

I wipe a tiny smear from the corner of my mouth and hand her back the lipstick.

“You ready?” I ask.

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” she replies. “God, I hope this doesn’t suck.”

I roll my eyes and unlock the door. “Lower your expectations. It’s a hospital party. It’s definitely going to suck.”

I step out and shut my door, and Monique does the same, circling the car to meet me on the other side.

“There’s probably not going to be any real partying,” I say as we walk toward the entrance. “They’ll introduce the new stockholder, hand out overpriced drinks, make awkward small talk, laugh at dry hospital jokes, and call it a night.”

“Remind me again why we’re even showing up?”

“Because everyone else is. And because Dr. Sanders said it wouldn’t look good if I skipped.”

“Dr. Sanders, huh?” Monique grins, wiggling her eyebrows as she nudges me with her shoulder.

I shoot her a look and smirk. “Shut up. Nothing’s going on, and nothing ever will. End of discussion.”

We step into the main hospital hall—and wow.

It’s already packed. Most of my coworkers are unrecognizable, dressed up like they’re walking a red carpet. Glittering dresses, silk gowns, tailored suits. It’s giving engagement party vibes… or maybe a low-budget awards show hosted by the board of directors.

“Damn,” Monique whistles. “If I get bored, I can just stare at all these hot doctors. They fine as hell.”

“Uh-huh,” I say under my breath. “This is going to be a very long night.”