1

Liana

I stare at my reflection in the mirror, and the memory hits so hard it feels physical.


—


“Fuck,” Julian had murmured against my ear, his voice rough enough to make my nipples pebble instantly. “How the hell am I supposed to sit through an entire night with my dick behaving itself when you’re wearing this?” His fingers skim the hem of the red dress. "You’re trying to kill me, aren’t you?"


I laughed under my breath, even as goosebumps raced down my arms. “Julian,” I warned, trying—and failing—to sound serious. “We’re already late.”


His hand slid around my throat slowly, while his mouth dragged over the side of my neck. “Let them wait,” he muttered. “Because I swear to God, I can’t keep looking at you without losing my fucking mind.”


And just like that, he tugged down the zipper. I didn’t stop him. Because as much as he wanted me, I wanted him worse. A minute later, our clothes were scattered across the floor in careless piles, and his mouth was there, hot and relentless, between my thighs.


My fingers tangled in his hair, yanking him closer even as my body twisted from the overwhelming pleasure of it. His tongue circled my clit with desperate hunger, two fingers fucking into me with a rhythm that stole my breath. Little by little my arousal drenched his fingers, his chin, the sheets beneath us. I was a mess of want and weakness, and he hadn’t even fucked me yet.


God, I could never get enough of him. That was when he dragged himself back up my body, settling between my thighs, the thick, insistent press of his cock teasing my pussy. I clung to him, my nails digging into his shoulders, my body bowing beneath his as he pushed into me—slow, so fucking slow, like he enjoyed watching me as I stretched around him one inch at a time.


“Ah—Julian…”


“I love you, Liana,” His mouth brushed the curve of my throat before he started thrusting, deep and controlled. He knew exactly what it did to me when he took his time.


My back arched off the mattress, chasing more of him, harder, deeper…


—


“You know I heard Mr. Stone’s new son is showing up tonight.” Jenny’s voice slices through the memory so suddenly it almost pisses me off.


I blink once, dragging myself back into reality. Right. The gala. We are walking side by side through the massive entrance of Randall Stone’s estate, both of us wrapped in evening gowns. The mansion glows under warm gold lighting, all polished marble.


Randall Stone—the primary owner of Bellevue Hospital. The man whose name alone makes department heads stand straighter. After two years of residency hell, this is the first time we’ve made it onto the guest list for his annual gala.


The red of my dress—and the matching lipstick painted onto my mouth—exists for one reason only: to disguise how fucking exhausted I am. Unfortunately, it also reminds me of that memory. Of him.


“His new son?” I repeat, turning toward Jenny.
“The bastard one,” she says. “The one he only acknowledged recently.”


“And who exactly told you that?” I ask with a smirk curling against my mouth. “Dr. Evan Phillips?”


“Shhh!” Jenny practically jumps out of her skin. “How the fuck do you know?”


We step fully into the ballroom. Crystal chandeliers flood the enormous space with warm golden light, reflections glinting off diamonds, satin gowns, champagne glasses, and the kind of polished smiles people wear when they secretly hate everyone in the room.


Servers weave through the crowd with silver trays balanced in their hands while soft music hums beneath the endless noise of conversation.


“Maybe because you suck at being discreet,” I mutter, shooting her a sideways look.


Jenny groans under her breath. “Ugh. Promise me you won’t tell anyone.” Her fingers clamp around my arm immediately, tight with panic.


“Relax,” I say dryly. “You’re already obvious enough for people to figure out you’re in his bed every night.”


Her horrified expression almost makes me laugh. My gaze drifts across the room instead, moving over familiar faces. Anyone from the hospital who isn’t stuck on shift tonight is here. And beyond them—


Other faces I recognize from an entirely different part of my life. My father’s world. Old money. Political alliances disguised as friendships. Families who smile while calculating each other’s net worth in real time.


I look away before my brain can wander too far in that direction. Because the last fucking thing I want tonight is to think about my father. Honestly, I’d rather be unconscious in my bed right now.


We make our way over to one of the tall cocktail tables where the other residents have already gathered in a noisy half-circle of champagne glasses and gossip.


“I seriously can’t wait to finally see him,” Paige Ellis says, looking seconds away from spontaneous combustion.


I lift a brow. “Who? Let me guess—the mysterious new Stone bastard?”


“Well, him too,” she says quickly. “But also the son he already had. Melissa saw him once and apparently he’s ridiculously hot.”


A smirk pulls at my mouth as I glance sideways at Melissa. “Of course she did.”


Melissa narrows her eyes at me immediately. “Oh, shut up. Don’t act like you’ve never drooled over a man before.”


God, I can’t fucking stand her. There are some people you naturally clash with, and Melissa somehow manages to irritate me by simply continuing to breathe near me. “Not nearly as much as you probably are between your legs right now,” I shoot back.


“Guys,” Liam cuts in dramatically, pressing a hand against his chest. “Can we please stop obsessing over men none of you have even seen yet when I’m standing right here looking this gorgeous?”


“Seriously,” Anders adds with mock offense. “It’s actually getting disrespectful at this point.”


That earns a laugh from around the table. I just snort quietly into my champagne, letting the conversation blur into background noise while my eyes wander across the ballroom again.


I don’t know how much time passes before movement at the far end of the ballroom catches my attention. A subtle shift in the crowd. People gathering.


“Oh my God, he’s here,” Jenny whisper-shrieks beside me, practically latching herself onto my arm.
I grimace. “Who? The new son?”


“What? No—Evan.”


I follow the direction of her gaze until I spot him near the entrance. He isn’t alone. And he’s very clearly not the centre of that attraction. There’s another man standing beside him, tall enough to command attention without even trying, though from this distance I can’t make out his face properly through the crowd moving around him.


“Go ask Evan to dance,” Jenny says, excitement vibrating through every word.


I turn to look at her like she’s lost her fucking mind. “Absolutely not. You want everyone to assume I’m the one secretly screwing him?”


“Oh please.” She rolls her eyes. “If both of us dance with him, nobody’s going to suspect anything.”


“Jenny—”


“Liana.”


God. Fucking. Damn it. After several more minutes of relentless badgering, I finally cave purely for the sake of shutting her up.


The second the crowd around Evan thins out enough, I straighten with a quiet sigh and start walking toward him.


The closer I get, the clearer the other man beside Evan becomes. And honestly? It’s not often a man makes me look twice. This one does. My eyes catch first on his dark brown hair, styled just carelessly enough to look effortless. Then lower. Sharp jaw. Strong mouth. Every angle of his face unfairly masculine in that polished, dangerous kind of way that usually belongs to men with bad intentions and expensive lawyers.


Fuck. Even beneath the black suit molded perfectly to his body, I can make out the hard lines of muscle underneath.


Jesus Christ. Slightly horrified at myself, I force my expression back under control before I embarrass myself by visibly drooling in the middle of Randall Stone’s ballroom.


The second I reach them, Evan notices me and smiles politely. “Dr. Carlson.”


I return the smile automatically. “Dr. Phillips. Good evening.”


“Wow.” His gaze drops briefly to my dress before returning to my face. “You look beautiful. Very bold choice, too.”


Alright, fine. Maybe the deep neckline of my red dress—with its thin straps and very questionable level of modesty—is a little too much for a hospital gala.


Before I can answer, another voice slips into the conversation for the first time. Low. Amused. “And definitely very distracting.”


My head turns toward him. And fucking hell. Gray. His eyes are gray. Sharp and cold and impossible to look away from once they lock onto mine. The effect is immediate. Violent, almost. Like two pieces of Lego snapping together so tightly they refuse to come apart afterward.