CHAPTER 3: A PLAN-B.

QUINCY POV

There were exactly six and a half crayons under my couch. I knew this because Eva made it her mission in life to find every single one of them before breakfast.

"Found purple!" she cried out happily, holding the crayon high up like a trophy before crawling farther under the cushions. "But no orange yet, mommy."

I leaned against the kitchen counter, drinking lukewarm coffee and watching her little feet sticking out from the living room as if they had a life of their own.

"You don't need to use orange," I said to her. "Use pink for the sun."

She gasped as if I'd committed a crime. "Mommy, that's not proper." Her proper came out as ‘pwopa’ and I found it cute.

"Oh, is it now?"

"Yes mommy."

I smiled, despite the ache in my eyes. Mornings like this did come often-quiet, silly, soft around the edges. Most mornings I was running on three hours of sleep and whatever coffee I could scrounge out between shifts.

But today, I had a half-shift, and Eva was spending the afternoon with my sister Maya. It almost felt normal. Peaceful.

Until my phone buzzed.

I picked it up instantly.

Unknown Number: Still playing house? Tick tock.

I looked at the message, my heart pounding in my chest. The name wasn't stored. But it didn't have to be.

Lucas.

Of course it was him.

I deleted the message and immediately blocked the number, though I knew it wouldn't make a difference. He'd get another one. It had gotten worse—first fake smiles and veiled threats, now they were replaced by random texts during my lunch break like I owed him something. Like the bereavement had given him license to bug me.

"Mommy, look!" Eva stood before me with a big smile on her face, holding up her paper. "You have a rainbow dress in this one!"

I knelt beside her and traced a finger over the sketch. The figure she drew—me—had wild hair and big brown eyes, surrounded by stars. It made me look magical. Like a version of myself that hadn’t been bruised by grief or worn down by court documents.

“I love it, baby. It’s perfect.”

She beamed. “I’m gonna show Auntie Maya!”

As she bolted to her room to grab her sketchbook, I stood up and looked around the apartment. The dining chairs were still missing—taken by Nathan's family when he passed away, some twisted game of who got to keep what. I hadn't replaced them. Couldn't yet.

Everything here had something wrong with it. A leaky faucet, a dimmed light. A reminder that nothing was whole for long.

_______________________

Later that morning, I stood in the Dr. Ashley’s office, trying to look calm when I was any but.

He leaned against his desk, arms folded, looking as sharp as always in his grey suit. Ashley was a late thirty-something, sharp and relaxed man. He was the kind of boss who didn't hover but seemed to notice everything.

"I know it's asking a lot," he said, and handed me a chunky file. "But you're my best recommendation."

I turned the file over. The name space was blank. "There's no patient noted."

"He requested discretion," Ashley said, looking at me over his glasses. "He's extremely well-connected. Doesn’t want any publicity."

I frowned. "Celebrity?"

"Something like that."

"Are the injuries that bad?"

"Not really. Just minor injuries. Mainly he just needs support for a dislocation and recovery assistance. Nothing invasive."

"Is it... live-in?"

“Yes it is. Three days a week. Flexible hours. The location is secure. Think of it as private-duty nursing without the burnout.”

I looked back at the folder. It listed the duties, but still no name. Just a scheduled meeting time and address.

“You’ve always handled difficult patients well,” he added. “I trust your judgment.”

I hesitated. “I have a daughter, Dr. Ashley.”

“I know. That’s why I’m offering it to you. The pay is five times what you’re making here.”

That made me pause.

“You’d be out of the rotation for a few weeks. Think of it like a paid breather.”

I leaned back in the chair, letting the offer sink in.

Three days a week. Better pay. Safer than the ER. And maybe—just maybe—a chance to get some space from Lucas.

"May I think about it?"

He grinned. "You have until tonight. But that’s ok too."

At lunchtime, I was in the hospital cafeteria pushing a tray of unwanted food around the plate while Maya entertained Eva with stickers.

"You're pale," Maya whispered, leaning close. "And tired. And tense."

"That's just how my face is now."

She rolled her eyes. "Is it Lucas again?".

"Quincy." Her tone fell. "He's not going to stop unless you make him stop."

"How? Call the police on him again? They won't do anything unless I show up with bruises."

"Then we get you a lawyer—"

"With whose money?"

She fell silent.

On the other side of the table, Eva stuck a butterfly sticker to Maya's cheek. "Now you're pretty!" she chuckled.

Maya grinned. "I was pretty already, but thanks anyway."

I smiled faintly. The thought of Lucas loitering anywhere near Eva made me ill.

"I was offered a job," I said. "Private patient. Higher pay. Low risk."

Maya raised an eyebrow. "What's the catch?"

"None. Except I don't know who the patient is."

She blinked. "You're kidding."

"He's rich. Someone with a PR department and a yacht named after their dog, I'd bet."

"Sounds terrible," she said wryly. "I hope you took it."

"I'm thinking about it."

She gazed at me. "You could use a win, Quinn."

I nodded.

I really did.

That night, after Maya had brought Eva home and she had gone to bed, I sat on the couch with the file in my arms. It was mostly just NDAs and treatment plans, but there was one page that stood out: the address.

Manhattan. It was near the East River, high-end, gated and conveniently private.

I looked it up on G****e Maps, and then on Zillow.

The digs were… lavish. A modern townhouse, double glass doors, multiple levels. The kind of place where security was more tight than an airport entrance.

My phone beeped again.

This time, a number I did recognize. From Ryan.

Dr. Ashley: Just texted you the updated chart. You're officially booked. Patient name is in the file now.

I rebooted the folder on my phone.

Scrolled.

Stopped.

Patient: Russo, Maxwell.

My heart tightened.

No. Not possible.

That Maxwell?

I hadn't seen or heard his name since high school. Not since the boy with messy-blond-hair and a sharp-jaw used to slip me secret notes in study hall. The guy who wanted to leave with me once. The guy who disappeared without a word.

I scowled at the screen like it would blow up if I blinked really hard.

Was this a coincidence?

Surely not. There had to have been more than a single Maxwell Russo in Manhattan.

But still, I remained there frozen, heart pounding faster than I would have liked, file open in my lap.

Then my phone vibrated again.

Unknown Number: You should've married me when you had the chance.

I gritted my teeth in annoyance.

Lucas again.

But this time, it was not the message that haunted me.

It was the name on the file.

Maxwell Russo.

What were the odds? She really just hoped it wasn’t who she thought it was.