Six

One thing Saint José’s staff knows how to do surprisingly well? Throw a good hospital party.

Since I started working here, they’ve hosted at least five—for charity, new departments, board appointments, anniversaries… you name it. This is only my second one. The first was forgettable. This one? I already regret showing up.

For a girl who used to live an extravagant, high-society life, parties like this feel… dull. Actually, most parties do—unless we’re talking about weekend club nights with my girls, loud music, cheap shots, and off-key karaoke. That I can do.

But this? This is just: Talk. Drink. Laugh at dry jokes.

More talking.

A little awkward flirting.

Pretend you’re having the time of your life.

I push my hair to one side, letting the waves fall down my shoulder as I half-listen to Noah. He’s mid-rant about some hospital drama, and Monique is eating it up, smiling and laughing like she’s front row at a comedy club. Tiwa’s off to the side, glued to her phone, rapid-texting the babysitter who’s watching her daughter.

I’ve been trying to have fun. Really. But I can’t—not when Dr. Sanders is staring at me from across the room.

Fucking hell.

I don’t usually mind being stared at. Comes with the territory when you grow up in a family like mine. My mother treated us like curated assets—beautiful, polished, and always camera-ready. Especially when it came to charming donors. Whenever my parents needed a favor or a fat check, my twin sister and I were the bait. Dress us up, hand us a speech, and point us toward a room full of wealthy men.

“Make sure you smile when you read this. Men like pretty little things with pretty smiles and perfect bodies. A smile alone can make a man do anything.”

She said that often. Like it was a commandment.

So yeah, I’ve gotten used to the stares—even the creepy ones. But this? The way Dr. Sanders is looking at me tonight?

Different.

I knew I looked… well, different. Hotter even. The lingering stares from several men tonight have confirmed that. Most of my coworkers have only ever seen me in scrubs or jeans—they couldn’t picture me in a dress if they tried.

But tonight? I didn’t try to look good. I wasn’t even supposed to be here. Still, I showed up in a deep red, backless halter dress that hugs every inch of me. The mermaid hem stops just above my knees, and my clear white stilettos match the sleek purse slung over my shoulder. My brown hair falls in soft, glossy waves down my bare back.

I didn’t dress to impress.

But apparently, I’m making an impression anyway.

I stop by the drink stand and glance down at my watch.

9:15 p.m.

When the hell is the main event going to start?

“Having a blast?” a familiar Scottish accent says beside me.

I turn to find a pair of striking green eyes. Dr. Sanders.

“You could say that,” I reply, offering a faint smile as I flag down the server.

“I haven’t had a chance to say this yet—you look nice, Robyn.”

Nice, huh?

If he wanted to sleep with me, he would’ve said hot, not nice. I swear, the last thing I need is another Doctor Ricci situation. Not from someone like Dr. Sanders. I actually respect him.

He seems like the type with morals, boundaries. The kind who doesn’t mix work and whatever else.

God, please don’t let this turn into something awkward.

“Thank you,” I say, keeping it polite. “You don’t look bad yourself.”

The bartender finally steps up.

“What can I get you?”

“Tequila.”

“Tequila?” Dr. Sanders arches a brow. “Isn’t that a bit strong?”

“I’m not going to chug it. Just sipping,” I reply with a small smirk before turning back to the bartender.

“A glass?” he asks.

“Yeah. That’ll do.”

He nods and walks off. I turn to Dr. Sanders, taking in his tailored black suit and crisp white shirt. He looks sharp. Effortless.

“So,” I ask, “you enjoying yourself?”

“Yeah. It’s a nice event.”

“Glad to hear it. Also… you won’t believe this, but I don’t know your first name. I only ever call you Sanders.”

He chuckles, showing off perfectly white teeth. “That’s true. It’s Richard.”

“Richie?”

“Richard,” he repeats quickly, already shaking his head. “I hate it when people call me Richie.”

I laugh. “Yeah, Richie does sound like a pussy.”

I instantly want to smack myself.

His eyebrows shoot up, clearly caught off guard. “I—uh—”

“Sorry,” I wince. “That was… a terrible word. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“It’s okay,” he says, still amused.

I nod awkwardly, glancing over my shoulder at my friends. They look like they’re having the time of their lives gossiping about who knows what.

“Your drink, ma’am,” the bartender says.

I turn back around, accepting the glass from him.

“Thanks,” I murmur, bringing it to my lips and taking a small sip.

“So…” Dr. Sanders starts, then seems to think better of it. “See you around?”

I nod. “Sure. I should get back to my friends.” I gesture with my glass toward the group.

“Of course.” He gives me a playful smile, and I return it before walking away.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” a clear, confident voice says over the mic, “I’m sure you’re all having a great time.”

Aaliyah Summers—the president of Saint José—stands on stage in front of a sleek digital podium. She looks as stunning as ever: smooth brown skin, long straight hair, toned legs, and a figure most people would kill for.

I’ve admired her since the day I started here.

Her story? Inspirational.

Hardworking. Polite. Unmarried. Unapologetically committed to her career.

Women like Aaliyah Summers don’t come around often. I’ve only seen her five times in person, and every single time she’s left a lasting impression.

The first time we met, I was stunned.

Aaliyah Summers—the president of this prestigious hospital—had requested to see me. A practical nurse. Not even a resident. I was sure there had been a mistake.

But there wasn’t.

She told me she’d watched me work. Said she admired my dedication. Then she shared her story—how she started as a practical nurse, too. Worked her way up to head nurse. Went back to school, earned a PhD in medicine, and left her old hospital to become a surgeon at Saint José. Within three years, she was head of surgery. Four years later, she became president.

That day changed something in me.

Aaliyah became my blueprint. A living, breathing reminder that hard work really does pay off.

Seeing her again now, after almost six months, makes me smile.

She steps up to the podium like she owns the room—and she kind of does.

“Not to keep y’all waiting,” she says, flashing a smile, “we’re gonna cut to the chase. I noticed some of you couldn’t wait for the announcement before rushing to grab your wine.”

Laughter ripples through the room.

“As most of you know, tonight is about welcoming someone special into the Saint José family. This hospital is more than a building—it’s a community. We support each other. We grow together.”

Tell that to Caroline Peters, I think, fighting the urge to roll my eyes. She wouldn’t know ‘community’ if it bit her square in her Botoxed ass.

“At Saint José, we’re constantly looking for ways to expand, to innovate, and to serve more people with affordable, quality care. So tonight, it is my absolute pleasure to introduce our newest shareholder. He’s the founder and CEO of PharmaCare—one of the most groundbreaking pharmaceutical companies in the country—and the sole owner of Voss Empire…”

The moment I hear Voss Empire, I choke.

Literally.

I spit out my wine, eyes glued to the stage, silently praying I misheard her. But deep down, I already know.

There’s only one man behind Voss Empire.

No. No, no, no—

“Ladies and gentlemen… Dominique Voss.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

The audience erupts into applause as Aaliyah shakes his hand like he just cured cancer. He steps onto the stage, effortlessly poised in a dark tailored suit, greeting the crowd like he’s royalty.

So yeah—Saint José is definitely in debt.

“Wait—Dominique is Saint José’s newest stockholder?” Monique says beside me. “Damn. I didn’t see that coming.”

Yeah. Me neither.

I whip my head toward her. “When you were giving me his biography, why didn’t you mention that he’s the founder of PharmaCare—our biggest supplier?”

Monique shrugs. “It slipped my mind. And come on, would it have made a difference? Were you gonna quit your job if you’d known?”

She sighs dramatically and slowly reaches for my wine glass.

“Do you think he bought hospital shares just to get back at me?” I ask, jaw tightening. “Or is this his way of reminding me he’s more powerful? More important?”

Monique blinks. “Nah. I don’t think so. You’re not that important.”

I glare at her.

She gives me a sheepish smile. “You know what I mean. You just scratched his car, not stole his fortune.”

“It was barely a scratch,” I snap, snatching my glass back and taking a long, angry gulp.

I’m slowly getting drunk. I can feel it settling in—warm, fuzzy, dangerous.

And this is the last place I want to be drunk.

“What are you guys whispering about?” Tiwa asks, narrowing her eyes at Monique and me.

“I heard something about Robyn totaling someone’s car,” Noah adds, grabbing the glass of tequila from my hand and bringing it to his nose.

He immediately gags, grimacing. “Damn. This is strong.”

Then he looks at me like I’ve committed a crime.

“I’m not drunk,” I say flatly, already beyond irritated.

Everything about tonight pisses me off. Dominique Voss is supposed to be a bad memory—done, dusted, forgotten. But no. He’s back. And not just back—he’s standing on the damn stage like he owns the entire building. Which, apparently, he kind of does.

The moment I saw him, I knew. I should’ve stayed far, far away.

He’s exactly the kind of man I promised myself I wouldn’t go near the moment I moved to this city.

And now life—twisted little bitch that it is—has decided to shove him directly into my path again.

Like a bad dream I can’t wake up from.

He’s still talking, addressing the crowd in that smooth, polished way men like him are taught to do, but I can’t hear a thing. I’m not even trying.

I’m too busy glaring at him from across the room.

Then—like he can feel it—Dominique Voss turns his head.

And our eyes lock.

Just like that.

It’s electric. Still. Always.

For a moment, the room fades, and it’s just us—two people on opposite sides of something that neither of us fully understands yet.

But one thing is clear. I can read his face now.

I can read that look in his eyes.

He’s started something.

A game.

A very dangerous game.

And he has no intention of losing.