3

“That’s Shaun Stone,” Jenny murmurs against my ear.

“Shaun? The son he already had?”

“Yeah.”

I glance back toward the small crowd, trying to get a better look.

“Huh.” I tilt my head slightly. “Guess we’re not seeing the new son after all.”

Jenny doesn’t answer.

A smirk pulls at my lips as I shift my attention back to her—and there it is. Completely gone. Her eyes locked onto Evan like the rest of the room stopped existing.

I jab my elbow into her side. “Hey. Pull it together.”

She jolts slightly, shaking her head as if that’s enough to reset her entire brain, then looks at me with a borderline tragic expression.

“I want to dance with him.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

If she goes out there with that look on her face—those actual heart-eyes—she might as well announce it to the entire room.

Her hand grabs my arm, fingers tightening with exaggerated desperation. “Lianaaa,” she drags my name out, shameless.

I already know where this is going.

I yank my arm back, shooting her a sharp look. “No. Absolutely not.”

“Please.”

“No.”

“Come on.”

“Jenny,” I say flatly, leaning in just enough so only she can hear, “do you want people to think I’m the one having something going on with him?”

“If we both dance with him, no one’s going to suspect anything,” she fires back instantly, like she’s been waiting for that exact argument.

I let out a frustrated breath, dragging a hand through the air like I’m trying to physically push the situation away.

“Fine.”

She just stares at me—waiting.

I raise an eyebrow. “What, right now?”

“Obviously.”

Of course.

I grab another glass of champagne off a passing tray, ignoring the way Jenny watches me like I’m about to perform something heroic. I take a slow sip this time, buying myself a few extra seconds while I wait for the space around Evan to thin out.

Eventually, the moment opens up just enough.

I move.

Cutting across the edge of the hall, weaving past clusters of conversations, the noise dimming slightly as my focus narrows. Each step brings them into clearer view.

First Evan.

Then—

Him.

Shaun Stone.

And yeah.

That explains the attention.

I don’t usually do double takes. Men don’t typically earn that kind of reaction from me.

But this?

This is… different.

His dark hair is styled just right—not overdone, not careless. Intentional. Everything about him feels that way. The structure of his face—sharp, masculine in a way that doesn’t try too hard and still lands exactly where it needs to.

Even the way the black suit sits on him—it doesn’t just fit, it follows. Clean lines over solid muscle, the kind you don’t need to see directly to know it’s there.

Jesus.

I catch myself—mid-stare, mid-assessment—and force my gaze away before it turns into something embarrassing.

Before I start actually drooling.

As I get closer, Evan is the first to notice me. His expression shifts instantly—recognition, then that easy, practiced smile.

“Dr. Carlson.”

I return it, measured, polite. “Dr. Phillips. Good evening.”

“Wow,” he says, his gaze flicking briefly toward my dress, then back up again. “You clean up very well.” A subtle tilt of his head. “Bold choice.”

Alright—fair.

Even I’ll admit the neckline of this red dress might be pushing the boundaries of what qualifies as appropriate for a formal event. The thin straps don’t exactly help.

I open my mouth to respond—but a voice cuts in before I can.

Low. Smooth. Unfamiliar.

“And undeniably distracting.”

My head turns toward him.

And just like that—everything else drops.

His eyes.

Gray.

Sharp, almost metallic under the light. And the second mine meet his, it’s like something clicks into place.

Like two pieces snapping together with no intention of coming apart.

“Let me introduce—Shaun Stone. Mr. Randall Stone’s eldest son,” Evan says.

Eldest, huh?

So Mr. Stone didn’t just build an empire—he multitasked while doing it. Producing the new one during the marriage!

“—and this is Dr. Liana Carlson, one of our residents.”

Shaun extends his hand toward me.

His expression sits somewhere near neutral—almost too neutral. But not quite. There’s something faint there, something restrained.

A trace of a smirk.

I take his hand. “Nice to meet you.”

“Carlson… hmm.”

He doesn’t let go. His grip lingers just a second longer than it should.

“Would you happen to be related to George Carlson?”

For a moment, I just look at him.

Silent.

Then, slowly, I slip my hand out of his.

“My father.”

That almost-smile on his lips deepens—just slightly.

“Small world.”

The second my father’s name left his mouth, the taste in mine turned bitter.

Predictable.

It always does.

I don’t want to know how they know each other. Don’t want to unpack that look on his face—that faint, knowing smirk that feels a little too pointed to be harmless.

But I can guess.

Rich man’s daughter. Paid her way through med school. Handed everything on a silver platter.

It’s not entirely wrong.

But it’s not the whole truth either.

I worked for this. Every inch of it.

I drag my focus away from him, cutting the thread before it pulls me any deeper.

“Dr Philips,” I say, shifting my attention back to Evan. “May I have this dance?”

He actually hesitates.

There’s a flicker of something—uncertainty, calculation—as his eyes dart briefly around the room before landing back on me.

“Uh…” A pause. “Yeah. Of course.”

Jesus! This is a party, not a fucking courtroom to be that anxious.

I slip my arm through his and we join the other couples on the floor, stepping away from Shaun's fixed gaze.

Evan has a good face. Medium height, leaning tall. And he leads well enough. I can see it. Why Jenny’s into him.

Put that together with his position, his reputation, the quiet authority he carries around the hospital—and yeah, it’s not hard to understand the appeal. For most girls here, that combination is practically magnetic.

But Jesus—he dances like a nervous teenager.

keeping overly careful distance, making sure nothing between us could be misconstrued.

It takes real effort not to roll my eyes.

Though maybe he’s not wrong.

Because I can feel it.

The looks.

A few doctors. A couple of residents. Watching.

Drawing conclusions.

Of course they are.

Fuck you, Jenny.

The dance finally ends—if you can even call that strained, awkward shuffle a dance—and I peel away with a tight, practiced smile, turning on my heel and head straight back to the table.

Jenny’s waiting.

I shoot her a glare the second I’m within range. “Happy now?”

She just winks. Winks.

Unbelievable.

The second she disappears, I reach for another glass, letting the champagne take over where patience clearly failed me. Liam slides back into orbit like he never left, and before I know it, I’m being pulled into another dance—this one easier, looser, less… suffocating.

I lose track of time.

Minutes blur, conversations dissolve, the music shifts.

And then—

“May I have this dance?”

I glance down first—at the hand extended toward me.

Then up.

Gray eyes.