Four

“Okay. Tell me everything again—word for word,” Monique demands Saturday morning.

We’re both in our pajamas, curled up in the living room, but she’s standing like she’s about to deliver a TED Talk. After last night’s weird encounter with him, I’d texted her that I was leaving. I had to. I couldn’t stay another second with him on the other side of the room, watching me.

His stare had heat. Heavy, consuming heat. There was nothing innocent about the way he looked at me. It wasn’t like Omar Kingston in a swoony old romance. No, this was darker. Possessive. And the woman clinging to his arm, whispering things I couldn’t hear but could definitely interpret, didn’t help.

Monique had told me to leave without her—of course—which was code for “I’m hooking up with someone.” So I booked a ride, took two more shots, and left the party agitated as hell.

“I already told you everything,” I mutter. “I’m not repeating myself.”

“Okay,” she says, crossing her arms. “Let me break it down for you, Robyn. Lenore—the two-faced bitch—texted my publicist a photo of you and him talking. My publicist sent it to me.”

“And…? We just talked.” I shrug.

“That’s not the point. That man is Dominique Voss. As in the Dominique Voss. Founder, owner, billionaire freakin’ tycoon of the Voss Empire. He runs an empire, Robyn. Like, actual companies—nonprofits, luxury hotels, restaurants, tech investments. You name it, he owns it. And you? You smashed his Rolls-Royce and fled the scene.”

I groan and drag myself into the kitchen. Monique follows.

“For the last time, I didn’t smash his car. It was a scratch. Maybe a bump. The point is—it wasn’t that serious. You’re being dramatic.”

“No, you ran away.”

“I panicked, okay?” I say, throwing up my hands. “I mean, he wasn’t exactly a nobody. Look at the car. The suit. The vibe. I figured I’d never see him again. I didn’t expect karma to come knocking so damn fast.”

“Please tell me you weren’t thinking when you did that,” Monique says, her arms crossed, a pitying look on her face.

“I wasn’t,” I admit, pressing my elbows onto the counter and rubbing my eyes.

“How do you not know who Dominique Voss is? He’s literally all over the internet. Everyone under forty is obsessed with him.”

“Well, my bad for not knowing the name of every ridiculously attractive billionaire. I’m a nurse, Mon. I don’t mingle in billionaire circles.”

Monique’s brows shoot up, her lips curling into a smirk. “Oh my God. You think he’s hot.”

“Isn’t he?” I say before I can stop myself.

She laughs. “I know he is, but hearing you say it? Shocking. I didn’t think you were capable of calling anyone hot.”

“Your point?”

“No point. Just… wow.” She grins. “Anyway, let’s worry about the fact that you might’ve invited drama into your life.”

“I still think you’re exaggerating,” I say. “He probably said all that just to guilt-trip me. I mean, yeah, billionaire energy, custom suits, power stare—but what could he possibly want from me?”

“Sex.”

I blink. “Excuse me?”

“He wants sex. Girl, that’s the oldest rich-guy move in the book—offer to cover your damages, and then try to sleep with you.”

I groan, rubbing my temples. “Then he’s out of luck. I didn’t hit his car and run off just to be blackmailed into a hookup. That’s psychotic.”

Monique stares at me in silence, smirking like a creep.

“Why are you smirking?”

“Nothing,” she says, sighing. “Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe he didn’t mean any of it. Maybe telling you you’re indebted to him was just some corny power play. Maybe this whole thing was just a meaningless conversation blown out of proportion.”

“Exactly. It’s nothing. He’s just being an arrogant asshole. He is rude and arrogant.”

Monique crosses her arms again, her smirk deepening. “Yeah?”

“I hate that look. I swear, I hate it.”

She raises her hands in mock surrender. “Sorry! I’m just… I don’t know… intrigued. Be honest—between us—was he hotter in real life?”

“I’ve only ever seen him in real life, so I can’t compare.”

“Touché,” she says, nodding as she opens the cabinet and grabs the coffee container. “You know, you could’ve avoided all this if you’d just gotten out of the car, apologized, and sorted it out.”

“Yeah. But instead, I freaked out and drove off like a lunatic.” I groan, settling onto the barstool as she starts the coffee maker. “And speaking of last night… who’d you hook up with?”

“Omar Kingston.”

“What?”

“What’s up?”

“Nothing.” I blink. “I just—wow.”

She snorts. “Yeah, I know. Regretted it the second he came on my face.”

“Oh shit.”

“Right? You know I hate that. It’s just gross. He wanted me to spend the night, but hell no—I wasn’t about to sleep next to that.”

“So that’s why you snuck in at midnight.”

“I didn’t sneak in,” she says, laughing. “I came in through the front door like a perfectly normal person.”

“Right,” I say dryly.

She rolls her eyes and pours the coffee into two mugs, sliding one toward me and placing the milk bottle beside it.

“And hey,” she says, suddenly softer. “About last night—I’m sorry I ditched you. That was a bitch move. I dragged you to that party as my plus-one. I shouldn’t have left you like that.”

“Wow. You finally realized it wasn’t cool. Not cool at all,” I say, lifting my mug.

“Yeah, I deserve that. It won’t happen again, promise.”

“It’s okay.”

“You forgive me, right?”

“Like I have a choice.” I grin, and she bites her bottom lip as we both giggle.

“What are you doing today?” she asks once the laughter fades.

“Dr. Sanders wants me to come in later—help out with a few patients.”

“Who’s Dr. Sanders?”

“Oh, right. He’s the new Scottish guy who replaced Dr. Ricci. He’s actually pretty cool.”

“And he wants you to come in today? Isn’t this your day off? We were supposed to hang out—it’s still my birthday, you know.”

“Shit. How did I forget that?” I mutter, unscrewing the milk and pouring some into my coffee.

“Because you didn’t include me in your plans,” she pouts. “Not cool, Robbie.”

I glance up, narrowing my eyes. “I’m gonna ignore that you just called me Robbie—which you know I hate—because I love you. Second, I did include you. We’re hitting a club tonight and getting wasted. It’s the weekend. I just need to run into the hospital for a couple hours. I doubt there’ll be much going on.”

Monique stirs her coffee with a sigh.

I flash her a sweet smile and take a sip from my mug.

“Is Dr. Sanders hot?” Monique asks.

I raise an eyebrow, smirking as I set my mug down. “Seriously?”

“What? I’m just asking.”

“Well, he’s Scottish. Take a wild guess.”

“Hot damn,” Monique mutters, grinning as she gulps her coffee.

“I didn’t think Scottish men were your thing.”

“I never said I was into Dr. Sanders. I just asked if he’s hot. And for the record, I don’t care about race or nationality. If he’s fine, he’s fine.”

I shoot her a look from under my lashes. “Mm-hmm.”

She grins. “Well? Do you think he’s hot?”

“What the hell, Monique? Why would I care?”

She crosses her arms, but I don’t give her the satisfaction of an answer.

“We should go grocery shopping,” she says, pivoting. “We’re out of everything.”

“And I’m paying this time,” she adds, throwing her head back to finish the rest of her coffee.

“You don’t have to. I can—”

“I know you can. You’ve been paying the rent on this beautiful place for years. The least I can do is handle groceries. And bills. And every other little thing. I’ve got money now, remember?”

“Right.” I smile, gathering our mugs and dropping them in the sink.

“Is that a yes?” she asks, leaning against the counter.

I turn on the faucet. “Yeah.”

“Great. I’m gonna go shower and get dressed.”

“Sure thing.”

***

“Heard about the party next weekend?” Tiwa asks, tying her short dreadlocks into a ponytail.

“What party?” I ask, frowning.

Of course I’m the last to know—as usual. Tiwa always seems to be the one filling me in. What’s happening, what’s about to happen, what already happened. She’s like the hospital’s unofficial newswire.

Tiwa is Nigerian, with a warm brown complexion and naturally dark-red lips. She’s nearly the same height as me, with a personality that’s pure sunshine. We hit it off instantly when we met a few years ago. She was a practical nurse back then—now she’s fully registered and thriving.

She left Nigeria eight years ago to study nursing here in the States. Now she’s living her dream, and I couldn’t be happier for her.

“I know you love your job,” she says, side-eyeing me, “but you’re seriously overworking yourself, darling.”

Why does everyone think I’m overworking myself? And the worst part? They’re not wrong.

I drown myself in work to avoid the memories clawing at the edges of my mind. When I’m not picking up extra shifts, Monique’s dragging me to a club to “have fun.” And when I’m not doing either, I’m on my couch binge-watching N*****x or Prime Video until I fall asleep.

My friends think I’m wasting my twenties. That I should be out there—living. Hooking up with strangers. Partying every weekend. Jet-setting to tropical destinations like the rest of the 26-year-old world.

Back in Italy, that was my life—minus the random hook-ups. I was a closeted romantic. I believed in love, but I kept it hidden, careful never to let my family catch on… until they figured it out for themselves.

To them, being a romantic was a sign of weakness. And no woman in our family was ever allowed to show weakness. They made sure of that.

“Women are supposed to dictate their lives—and their love lives. Never show a man weakness. Carry yourself like the queen you are. Love is for the weak. Men should beg for your attention, your time.”

My mother made sure those words were tattooed into our minds. Falling in love was the ultimate sin. And the last thing you ever wanted to be was weak.

For years, I kept wondering how she and my father ever got married—until I found out she’d been betrothed to him on her eighteenth birthday. Her parents were filthy rich and saw early marriage as a business transaction. She was their only daughter, with three older brothers who treated her like she didn’t matter.

My father didn’t love her. Not at first. But they learned to tolerate one another. Eventually, he grew to respect her… even care for her. And my mother—well, she became someone you didn’t cross. She never repeated herself. Never threatened. If she said she’d ruin your life, she meant it.

Me and my siblings? We were raised to obey. Everything was decided for us: what we ate, what we wore, where we traveled, who we dated, when we took breaks from the family business. It was suffocating. I could barely breathe.

Coming to this country was supposed to be freedom. A clean slate. I promised myself I’d live differently—do whatever the hell I wanted. Whatever made me happy.

And yet… I still look over my shoulder. I still live like they’re watching me. Like the past is just one step behind.

Every party, every street—I scan the crowd first. Looking for familiar faces, for anyone who might recognize me. One whisper in the right ear, and they’d know where I am.

I still live in fear.

No matter how many times I tell myself they won’t find me—that they don’t care to—I can’t shake the feeling that they could. That they will. It’s been four years since I left, and still, I can’t stop waiting for the past to catch up with me.

And it will.

Sooner or later.

I hate living like this—always vigilant, always scanning, always trying to disappear. I remember the day Monique asked me why I’m so observant, always watching the room like something’s about to happen. She said it’s like I’m searching for something that isn’t there.

I gave her the only answer that came to mind.

“I watch everything because I was raised to expect anything.”

I pull a rubber band from the pocket of my scrubs and tie my hair into a loose ponytail.

“Robyn?” Tiwa calls, snapping me out of my thoughts.

I sigh and glance at her. “Okay, I hear you. I get it. I’m living like some tragic loner—but I’m not lonely.” Which is true.

“Okay…”

“I just don’t care much about hospital gossip.”

“Who’s talking about gossip?” Tiwa raises an eyebrow. “I’m talking about how you live. You need a breather, my friend.”

“Got it.”

Tiwa exhales like she’s been holding her breath for minutes. “And about the party—everyone’s buzzing. It’s been forever since Saint José did anything fun, let alone throw a party.”

“Is it even a party, though?”

“It’s a party,” she insists. “The board announced it on Monday. You were too deep in your own head to notice.”

“What kind of party?” I ask flatly, already tuned out.

Tiwa knows I don’t care, but she opens her mouth to answer anyway—until Noah strolls into the locker room, opening his locker and tossing in his bag.

“I think it’s for the hospital’s new stockholder,” he says. “I heard he’s very attractive.”

Tiwa and I turn to stare at him. He’s already in his scrubs.

“You took your uniform home?” I ask.

“Nope. Mine got destroyed. This one’s fresh—courtesy of the queen herself.” He says.

Noah is a licensed practical nurse, just like me. He’s sweet, a little dramatic, and effortlessly cute. Blonde hair, milky-white skin, lean build, and shorter than me—but his energy? Loud in the best way. Half Canadian, half American, and a full-time ray of sunshine.

“You’re late,” Tiwa points out.

“Yeah, I know. But shouldn’t we be working instead of gossiping?” he teases, then turns to me. “Also, how do you not know the hospital’s throwing a party to introduce our new stockholder?”

“Because Robyn doesn’t have a life, that’s why,” says a voice I’d recognize blindfolded.

Caroline Peters.

Daughter of a board member, registered nurse, soon-to-be head nurse—not because of merit, but nepotism. She’s made it her mission to ruin my day at least once every 24 hours.

God, I hate this bitch. And the hate? Oh, it’s mutual.

Every chance she gets, she reminds me I don’t belong. I slam my locker shut and shoot her a glare.

“Eat shit and fall off a bridge, Caroline,” I say sweetly, flashing her a devilish smile.

She smirks, eyes flicking to Tiwa and Noah, then settling back on me. “That mouth of yours is why you’ll never land a permanent position here.”

“We’ll see about that.” I step toward her, lean in slightly, and mutter under my breath, “Butt licker.”

“What did you just call me?” she barks, puffing up like she’s ready to square off.

“Let’s go,” Tiwa says, looping her arm through mine and tugging me toward the door.

“I thought as much,” Caroline calls after us.

I shake my head, rolling my eyes as we exit the locker room—Noah trailing behind.