The linoleum of St. Jude’s fourth floor gleamed under the fluorescent lights, sterile and indifferent. But the night shift belonged to Lia. She moved through the corridors with a practiced grace, her scrubs a soft lavender that hugged the curves of her hips, her dark hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail that swung with a hypnotic rhythm. She wasn’t just a nurse. To the long-term male patients, the ones who spent weeks staring at beige walls and daytime television, she was a fixture. A fantasy. A promise.Her shift started like any other. Vitals, meds, charting. But Lia had a system. A side business that paid for her sister’s college tuition, her own car, and the designer handbags she kept hidden in her closet. The men in room 412, 415, and 418 weren’t just patients. They were clients. Lonely, desperate, and very, very generous.She slipped into room 412 first. Mr. Henderson. A fifty-two-year-old contractor with a back injury and a wife who visited once a week. He was propped up in bed
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