2

It’s safe to say, that nothing replaces a full night’s sleep.

The second I made it back to my apartment, I crashed—no transition, no in-between. Just out. Dead to the world. I didn’t even remember hitting the bed. That was… what, two hours ago?

And somehow, I still feel like shit.

Heavy. Foggy. Like my brain is wrapped in cotton and my body’s dragging half a step behind every movement.

Showering felt like a chore. Doing my makeup? Worse. Pulling myself into this dress? Honestly, it took more effort than my final exams ever did.

But—somehow—I managed to piece together something presentable. Something that passes for appropriate at one of Mr. Stone’s ridiculously upscale parties, probably hosted in one of his many obscene properties.

The dress helps.

A long, fire-red gown, matched with lipstick in the same shade—bold enough to fake intention, to create the illusion that I chose this look, that I’m fully here, fully alive. It does a decent job of masking the washed-out exhaustion underneath.

Or at least, I hope it does.

The hall is massive—expansive in that unnecessary, almost arrogant way wealth likes to express itself. Light spills from crystal fixtures overhead, catching on glass, jewelry, polished surfaces. Everything gleams.

People move in slow currents across the room, dressed in shimmering fabrics, laughter floating easily between them. Conversations overlap, soft and effortless, like no one here has ever known what it means to be bone-tired.

They all look… vibrant. Alive. Effortless.

And I’m standing in the middle of it, eyes burning, vision just a little too sharp around the edges, like I haven’t fully caught up with reality yet.

I can’t stop blinking.

And all I can think about—through the noise, the light, the movement—

is how badly I want this night to be over.

How good my bed is going to feel.

“Oh my God—you look stunning.”

Jenny’s voice hits me before I even fully turn, and the next second I’m pulled straight into her arms. The impact is warm and familiar.

She steps back just enough for me to take her in properly.

A light pink dress, the corset encrusted with what looks like a ridiculous number of tiny stones, catching the light every time she moves. Her blonde hair falls in soft waves over her shoulders, styled to perfection without looking forced.

“Jenny,” I breathe out, a small, genuine smile breaking through the fatigue. “You look insane.”

“Ah, thank you,” she says, the words wrapped in a pleased, almost glowing smile. She doesn’t linger on it, though. “Come on, let’s go find the others.”

Her fingers close around my wrist, already pulling me along.

We weave through the crowd, slipping into a cluster of familiar faces.

Most of them are ours—people our age, residents I’ve spent years alongside. A few older doctors too, attendings whose faces I know almost too well from long shifts and worse nights.

Everyone I’ve seen in blue and white scrubs, moving through sterile hallways with tight expressions and clipped voices—now laughing. Drinking. Looking like entirely different people. Everyone who isn’t on shift tonight is here.

Around us, the rest of the room hums with quiet luxury. Conversations glide, glasses clink, everything polished to perfection.

My gaze drifts across them, catching on a few faces I recognize—not from the hospital.

From the other side of my life. Through my father. The thought presses in—and I shut it down immediately. No. Not tonight.

“Wow—look at you.” Anders Reese lets his gaze drag over me in a way that’s just a little too slow—like he’s trying to peel layers off without actually touching. “Cleaned up real nice.”

“Try not to stare like a starving creep, Anders,” I shoot back, resting my elbows against the edge of the tall table between us. “I’m not in the mood.”

“I know exactly what you need,” Liam Moss cuts in, casual, confident—like he’s already solved me. “A drink.” He lifts his glass toward me—champagne, pale and bubbling under the light.

I glance at it. This one… I can’t really refuse. Not with those green eyes watching me like that, not with that effortless kind of good-looking that makes saying no feel unnecessarily complicated.

“Ugh, fine.” I take the glass from Liam without ceremony and down it in one go—no slow sip, no polite pause. Just tilt, swallow, done.

“Jesus, Liana!” Melissa Parry snaps, her voice laced with judgment. “This isn’t a bar.”

I don’t even bother looking at her.

“Shut it, Melissa,” Jenny cuts in, sharp enough to land.

The novelty of me being “newly arrived” wears off fast. Attention shifts, conversations splinter, and within minutes it all dissolves into the usual low-grade nonsense. Voices overlapping, laughter a little too loud, topics circling the same predictable orbit. Specifically—the Stone sons.

It’s almost impressive how no one actually knows what the hell they’re talking about, and yet everyone has something to say.

None of us have seen the new son because, well… he’s new. That would make sense. But the older one? Existing one? He’s just as much of a mystery.

Another glass appears in front of me. I don’t even remember finishing the last one. Third? Fourth?

I take it anyway. “Liam,” I say, eyeing him as I accept it, “if your goal is to get me drunk, I just want to point out—you’re doing a pretty solid job.”

He shrugs, the picture of innocence, not even trying that hard to sell it. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

If I didn’t know better, I’d say he’s working up to asking me to go home with him after this. Yeah… no. I’m probably wrong.

I wouldn’t pretend the thought is completely off the table. But Liam operates on a different wavelength—keeps his distance, doesn’t blur lines with coworkers, doesn’t mix things unless there’s a reason.

Anders, on the other hand…

You’d have to scrape him off whichever girl so much as smiles in his direction. I’m willing to bet if I gave him the slightest bit of encouragement, his imagination would sprint straight to the finish line—no hesitation, no nuance, just straight to picturing both of us tangled up in ways I have zero interest in entertaining.

Out of the corner of my eye, a shift in the room catches my attention.

A ripple—subtle at first, then gathering weight. A small crowd forming. Voices dipping, bodies angling, that quiet kind of curiosity people try—and fail—to hide.

I narrow my gaze slightly, trying to make sense of it through the moving figures.

And then I spot him. Evan Phillips—honey-colored hair, that half-serious expression he always wears like it’s part of his job description. He’s there, caught in the middle of it. But he’s not the reason for the attention. Standing beside him is another man. Dark hair. Broad shoulders. Turned just enough that I can’t fully see his face.

And yet—there’s something about the way he holds himself, the way the space subtly rearranges around him—like the room decided, all on its own, to pay attention.