Chapter Ten: Her Stranger

The pounding at the door snapped Sarah awake.

Her heart lurched in her chest. She pushed up on her elbows, blinking against the gray morning light that filtered through the blinds. For a second she thought she had dreamed it all, the wine, the ride home, the way she had stumbled into his arms and then into her own bed.

But then she turned her head.

And there he was.

The stranger. The man she had dragged home like a terrible, reckless mistake. He was sprawled across her sheets, bare chest rising and falling, hair tousled, mouth curved in a faint, knowing smirk as though he hadn’t just stolen her sanity the night before.

Another knock. Firmer this time.

“Dr. Smith?” A clipped, professional voice carried through the wood. “It’s Bella. Are you up? You’re running late.”

Sarah froze, blood rushing in her ears. Bella. Her secretary. Always punctual, always annoyingly efficient. And now, seconds away from walking into the most compromising situation of Sarah’s life.

“Oh my God,” Sarah whispered, panic clawing up her throat. She shot upright, clutching the sheet to her chest, and whipped toward the man beside her. “You need to hide. Now.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. His eyes flickered open, dark and heavy with amusement. Instead of obeying, he stretched lazily, the motion dragging the sheet lower on his hips, exposing the sculpted lines of his abdomen.

“Why?” His voice was low, rough with sleep, but dripping with mockery. “Don’t want her to see me?”

Sarah’s stomach knotted. She shoved at his shoulder with one hand while clutching the sheet tighter with the other. “Please. You can’t be here. She can’t see you—”

“Dr. Smith?” Bella’s voice grew sharper. “I’m coming in if you don’t answer.”

Panic ricocheted through Sarah. She scrambled to her feet, nearly tripping over her robe on the floor. The man still hadn’t moved. In fact, he looked entertained, eyes gleaming as he dragged them slowly down the length of her body, taking in her flushed cheeks, her bare legs, the way she shook with nerves.

“Hide!” she hissed, desperate now.

Finally, with deliberate slowness, he swung his legs off the bed. His every move was unhurried, calculated like he wanted her to suffer through every agonizing second. He padded across the hardwood floor, picking up his discarded shirt with two fingers but not bothering to put it on.

Sarah tried to shove him toward the bathroom. “In there. Quiet. Please.”

He leaned down instead, his lips brushing dangerously close to her ear. The heat of his breath sent a shiver ripping through her. “You’re panicking,” he murmured. “It’s sexy.”

Her knees nearly buckled.

Another sharp knock. The doorknob rattled.

“Doctor, if you don’t open this door in five seconds—”

Sarah shoved him, hard, and he finally slipped into the bathroom. The door clicked shut just as she twisted the bedroom knob.

Bella pushed inside, tablet in hand, her expression prim and impatient. She stopped short, eyes narrowing. “You look… disheveled.”

Sarah forced a laugh, clutching her robe closed. “I overslept. Long night. Didn’t hear my alarm.”

Bella’s gaze swept the room like a scanner. The rumpled sheets. The faint scent of cologne that wasn’t Sarah’s. The extra pair of men’s shoes barely hidden beneath the bed.

Sarah’s pulse hammered. She could feel the man’s presence pressing through the bathroom door, taunting her without even being visible.

“Your first surgery is in thirty minutes,” Bella said at last, adjusting her glasses. “You’ll need to move quickly if you don’t want to embarrass yourself in front of the entire OR team.”

Sarah nodded too fast. “Yes, of course. Thank you. I’ll be ready.”

Bella’s suspicion lingered another beat before she turned and swept out. The moment the door clicked shut, Sarah collapsed against the wall, dragging in a ragged breath.

The bathroom door opened a crack. He stood there, shirt still hanging from his hand, grin sharp enough to cut glass. “You’re terrible at lying,” he murmured.

Her face burned. “Get out.”

But his smirk only deepened as he slipped past her, moving unhurriedly toward the door as though he owned not just her room, but her entire life.

By the time Sarah rushed into the hospital, she was already late. Her hair barely held together in a bun, her lipstick smudged no matter how many times she’d fixed it in the rearview mirror of the taxi.

Colleagues looked up as she passed, whispers following her down the corridor. She ignored them, forcing herself into her white coat, trying to focus.

Inside the OR, the lights blazed, the air sharp with antiseptic. Normally the theater calmed her nerves, steadied her hands. But today, every sense betrayed her.

The phantom heat of his mouth still lingered on her ear. Her thighs pressed tight together, desperate to contain the tremors that memory triggered.

“Dr. Smith,” the attending surgeon barked, pulling her into focus. “Are you with us?”

“Yes. Absolutely,” she replied, voice sharper than intended.

She scrubbed in, slipped on gloves, steadied herself. But when she picked up the scalpel, her pulse faltered. Her mind replayed his whisper. You’re panicking. It’s sexy.

Her hands trembled. Not enough to cause harm, but enough that she noticed and hated it.

Hours stretched painfully long. Every beat of her heart seemed synced to the ghost of his smirk. By the time the procedure ended, she was drenched in sweat, exhausted, and furious at herself.

She peeled off her cap in the locker room, leaned back against the cold metal, and closed her eyes.

This was insane. She didn’t even know his name. He was supposed to have been one mistake, one anonymous night.

And yet her body still hummed like he was under her skin.

The announcement came suddenly, slicing through her haze.

“All senior staff to the VIP ward. Immediate attention required.”

Sarah frowned, shoving her scrubs into her bag. A VIP? That usually meant politicians, celebrities, or the kind of untouchable billionaire donors who thought hospitals bent to their whims.

She followed the stream of doctors and nurses toward the private wing. The air thickened with tension as she approached. Security men in dark suits lined the hall, eyes scanning every movement. Assistants barked orders into earpieces, their voices urgent.

And then he appeared.

Not in rumpled sheets. Not barefoot and teasing.

But in a tailored suit, sharp and commanding, his presence filling the corridor like a thunderclap.

The man from her bed.

Her stranger.

He turned at that exact moment, as though he had felt her before he saw her. Their eyes locked. His mouth curved into that same devastating smile, slow, sinful, and deliberate.

And Sarah realized, stomach plummeting, heart stuttering.

She had never even asked his name.