All Chapters of Tempted By Dr. Dangerous: Chapter 1 - Chapter 10

Elena The clock on the mantle was a custom piece—brushed gold, silent, and excruciatingly precise. I had watched the minute hand sweep across the dial for three hours, three minutes, and twelve seconds. I sat at the head of the dining table, my spine perfectly straight, the way my mother had taught me. A dainty woman, she used to say, never let her back touch the chair. It was a rule I followed as religiously as the others. never raise your voice, never let your hair frizz, and never, under any circumstances, let the world see that you are anything less than cherished. The Coq au Vin had long since stopped steaming. A thin, translucent film had formed over the red wine reduction, dulling the vibrant color I’d worked so hard to achieve. I’d spent the afternoon in the kitchen, the heat of the stove wilting my silk blouse, all to ensure that when Marcus walked through the door, he would be met with the olfactory proof of my devotion. 7:00 PM had been the goal. 8:00 PM had been the

Elena The office air-conditioning was humming a low, sterile tune that usually helped me focus on the grant proposals piling up on my desk. But today, the hum felt like a drill. My head throbbed with the ghost of last night’s silence, the kind of silence that Marcus used to suffocate me until I apologized for breathing. When my phone vibrated with his name, my stomach did a familiar, sickening flip. "Marcus?" I answered, keeping my voice professional. "Elena. My mother is coming into the city tonight. She’ll be at the house by seven." The announcement was like a sudden drop in temperature. Greta Vance. A woman whose behavior was a sharp as a razor and twice as cold. "Tonight? Marcus, it’s a Tuesday. I have a board meeting in the morning." "She’s staying for dinner," he continued, ignoring my protest as if I hadn't spoken at all. "She mentioned she’s been craving Beef Wellington. The traditional way. Duxelles, crêpes, the whole arrangement. Make sure it’s handled." I closed m

Jaxon The vibration of my phone against the mahogany nightstand is the first thing that pulls me out of a restless sleep. I swipe to answer, my voice a low, morning rasp. "Deluca." "Good morning, Doctor," Sarah, my assistant, chirps with a level of energy I find offensive this early. "Just confirming your ten a.m. It’s a couple. New intake. A Mr. and Mrs. Marcus Vance." I sit up, rubbing a hand over my face. The name doesn't ring a bell, but the profile does. High-net-worth, North Shore address, likely referred by one of my clients in that region. "Vance. Right. Any notes?" "The husband booked it. He was... persistent about the time slot. Said it was an 'urgent matter of marital compatibility.'" I can almost hear the sneer in her voice. We both know what that means. "So, another husband who thinks my office is a repair shop where he drops off his wife for an oil change and a personality transplant. Fantastic." “You’re the best in the city, Jax. Five years of clinical exce

ElenaThe smell of nutmeg and vanilla shouldn't be this loud at seven in the morning.I sit up in bed, the silk sheets rustling against my skin as I blink away the remnants of a dream involving grey eyes and charcoal suit. The house is usually silent until the coffee maker hisses. Today, the air is thick with the scent of French toast—the thick-cut brioche kind I used to crave before Marcus decided that refined carbs were the enemy. The chef must be here early, thank goodness.I throw on my robe, my bare feet silent on the cold mahogany floors as I make my way toward the kitchen. I expect to find the chef, but instead, I see Marcus. He isn’t in his suit yet. He’s in a pair of casual slacks and a crisp white button-down with the sleeves rolled up, standing over the stove with a spatula in his hand.The table is already set. Fresh strawberries, whipped cream, and the specific brand of organic maple syrup he usually scoffs at."Good morning, baby” he says, turning to flash me a smile th

ElenaThe silk of my lace dress is starting to feel like a shroud. I’m pacing the length of our bedroom, the heels of my designer pumps digging into the plush cream rug. It’s 7:15 PM. The reservation was for seven. I’ve called him three times in the last ten minutes, and each time the mechanical chime of his voicemail has felt like a door slamming in my face. On the fourth attempt, the ringing stops. "Elena? What is it?" Marcus’s voice is a jagged edge, rushed and breathless. I can hear the muffled roar of a city street in the background—or perhaps a crowded restaurant. "Marcus? You’re late," I say, forcing my voice to remain soft, layering it with a patience I don't truly feel. "I’m all ready. I’m wearing the dress you asked for. I thought we were heading to Avery’s? It’s our favorite, remember? You said we needed this." "I know what I said, Elena!" he snaps, the volume of his voice jumping an octave. I flinch, pulling the phone an inch away from my ear. "Something came up at the