The emergency bay at Sterling Medical Center was a flurry of activity. Maya Khan, head of OB-GYN but currently the highest-ranking attending on the floor, stripped off her gloves and marched toward the trauma room.
“Patient is Seraphina Rivers. Collapse. Possible cardiac event linked to… existing conditions,” a nurse recited.
Maya’s jaw tightened. She knew the “condition” was a lie. She wanted to scream it, but she needed proof.
She grabbed the chart, but a large, manicured hand slammed down on top of it.
Dr. Julian Sterling, the hospital heir and its most arrogant surgeon, loomed over her. He was handsome in a clinical, severe way, with eyes that missed nothing.
“I’ll take this one, Dr. Khan,” Julian drawled. “This requires a delicate touch. Not your… emotional brand of medicine.”
“She’s faking, Julian,” Maya hissed, lowering her voice so the nurses wouldn’t hear. “Check her vitals. Her BP is normal. Her pupils are reactive. This is a show.”
“And you are a conspiracy theorist,” Julian countered, stepping into her space, backing her toward the supply closet door. The air between them crackled–half fury, half undeniable attraction. “The Crofts are our biggest donors. If Miss Rivers says she is in pain, we treat the pain. We do not interrogate the patient.”
“You’re enabling a predator,” Maya spat, looking up at him, her chest heaving with anger.
“I’m doing my job,” Julian murmured, leaning down until his lips were inches from her ear. “Maybe you should focus on yours. Unless you want me to report you for harassment?”
He snatched the chart from her hand and strode away. Maya watched him go, trembling with rage and a heat she refused to acknowledge.