001

Claire's POV

“I have a problem,” Connor said, stretching his long legs beneath the consultation table like he owned the damn room. “I haven’t been able to reach climax for five years.”

I looked up from the patient chart slowly, one eyebrow arched.

The man had the nerve to look genuinely concerned about what he just spilled out of his lips.

Outside, late afternoon light poured gold across Woodland Hills, catching on glass buildings while the distant wail of ambulance sirens drifted up from Ventura Boulevard. Nurses bustled past my open door with charts and coffee, completely unaware that the hospital’s golden surgeon was currently discussing his dick like it was a medical mystery.

I dropped the chart onto my desk with a slap.

“God really does test me with you Connor.”

Connor’s grin flashed—sharp, crooked, and far too pleased with himself. “So you admit it’s a medical emergency?”

“No. I think it’s karma finally catching up to you.”

“Ouch. That one actually stung.”

“Well you’ll live. You always do.”

“Not if this drought keeps up,” he said, pressing a hand dramatically over his heart. “I’m wasting away, Claire. A shell of a man.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Connor, why are you like this?”

“That’s a deep psychological question involving abandonment trauma, emotional repression, and an unhealthy attachment to sarcasm. Want me to schedule you a session?”

“Get out of my office.”

He laughed low, leaning back further in the chair like he had all the time in the world. Connor had always acted like every room belonged to him. Worse, people usually agreed.

The nurses lit up when he walked by. Even the battle-ax receptionists who terrified interns softened at that stupid, disarming smile. It was ridiculous. The man was clinically incapable of normal behavior for more than thirty seconds at a stretch.

I shoved files into my tote bag, refusing to look at him directly.

That was safer.

Because Connor Hayes had grown into the kind of man who made people stare too much without meaning to—tall, broad-shouldered, dark hair always artfully messy, sharp jaw, and tattoos that teased just beneath his rolled sleeves. The kind of face that looked unfairly good under hospital fluorescents.

Not that much of the outside world knew it. The internet was obsessed with the mysterious Dr. Hayes, but the man dodged cameras like a fugitive. There were entire TikToks dedicated to edits of his hands, for God’s sake.

Meanwhile, I saved lives for ten hours a day and got nothing.

Rude.

“You’re avoiding eye contact again huh,” he noted, amused.

“I’m avoiding a murder charge,” I shot back. “One more sentence about your sex life and I’m going to need a lobotomy.”

“You’d miss me.”

“I’d recover beautifully. Maybe even throw a party.”

“You say that now,” he murmured, “but we both know you’d be lost without my sparkling personality.”

I zipped my bag with more force than necessary. “You’re literally the human equivalent of a migraine.”

“And yet you’d still cry at my funeral.”

“That’s different. Those would be tears of relief.”

Connor’s expression softened for half a second—then the smirk returned. “You know, if you ever get tired of Tyler, I could generously step in. Save you from a lifetime of mediocre conversation and missionary position.”

“Oh my God.”

“I’m serious. I’d be doing you a public service.”

“You once forgot a girl’s name mid-sex.”

“In my defense, she had the personality of a plain oatmeal. Very forgettable Claire, doesn't mean shit.”

“You called her Jessica.”

“Well, she looked like a Jessica.”

“Her name was Amanda.”

Connor shrugged, completely unrepentant. “Close enough. Emotional proximity I guess.”

I stared at him in disbelief. “How the hell are you a respected surgeon?”

“Natural talent. Devastating good looks. Superior bone structure, healthy kidney. The usual.”

“Narcissism isn’t a surgical skill.”

“It absolutely is. Confidence is everything in the OR, sweetheart.”

I shook my head, fighting a laugh as I grabbed my keys. Then his voice dropped, losing the playful edge.

“You still trust that bastard?”

The warmth drained from the room.

I turned to face him fully. “Don’t call him that.”

Connor’s jaw tightened. “Claire—”

“I mean it. Stop.”

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “You ever notice how he talks to you when no one else is around? How you apologize for things that aren’t your fault? Even if he's Alpha, he doesn’t deserve that.”

“That’s not—”

“You apologized last week because you ordered the wrong fries.”

Heat crawled up my neck. “That was one time.”

Connor gave me a long, knowing look. The kind that made me want to throw something at him.

I crossed my arms. “We’ve been together three years. He’s good to me. He’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Something flickered across Connor’s face—too fast to name. Pain, maybe. Regret. Then it was gone.

“You sure about that?” he asked quietly.

The question landed heavier than it should have.

I hated how easily he could plant tiny seeds of doubt. Hated even more that part of me sometimes wondered if he was right.

“I’m sure,” I said firmly. “And you don’t get to decide who’s good enough for me, Connor.”

His eyes locked on mine, intense and unwavering. “And if I did?”

The air thickened. For a suspended moment, the only sound was the low hum of the fluorescent lights and distant hallway chatter.

I forced a laugh, breaking the tension. “You are so dramatic.”

“I’m serious Claire, I can't have my best friend marry a scumbag.”

“No, you’re delusional. There’s a difference.”

He smiled faintly, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

I headed for the door before things could get any stranger. “Meanwhile Connor, I really want you there tomorrow. At the engagement party. No disappearing acts. No fake emergencies. No photoshopped pictures of burning cars either”

“That only happened once.”

“It had a watermark, Connor.”

He rubbed a hand over his jaw, chuckling. Then the humor faded again.

“You really love him?” he asked softly.

The gentleness in his voice caught me off guard. Like the answer actually hurt him to hear.

I swallowed. “Yes I do, got a problem with that?”

Before he could respond, the door slammed open so hard it cracked against the wall.

A young man I don't recognize stood there, chest heaving, face pale.

Connor was on his feet instantly. “What happened?”

The man’s eyes darted between us before settling on Connor.

“Damien,” he panted. “He’s here.”