Alaina dragged herself out of bed. She had spent the entire night staring at the ceiling, her mind a chaotic mess of memories she had tried to bury.
She walked into the bathroom and turned on the faucet. She splashed freezing water onto her face, hoping the shock would wash away the dark circles under her eyes.
She changed into her practical navy scrubs, grabbed her metro card, and walked out of the apartment.
The New York subway was packed. She stood shoulder-to-shoulder with strangers until she reached the Manhattan Central Hospital.
She walked quickly through the crowded outpatient lobby and headed straight for the staff locker room.
She opened her metal locker, pulled out her crisp white coat, and slipped her arms through the sleeves.
She draped her stethoscope around her neck and pinned her badge to her lapel. It read: Dr. Strong, Maxillofacial Surgery.
She walked out of the locker room and headed toward the nurses' station to check the morning charts.
Leah Fischer, a first-year intern, ran up to her, clutching a metal clipboard to her chest.
"Dr. Strong," Leah said, speaking too fast. "The ER just admitted a patient with significant mandibular trauma from a fall. She's a VIP, so they're handling it with extra care."
Alaina nodded. She took the clipboard from Leah's hands and walked briskly toward the emergency wing.
She walked down the long corridor. The heavy smell of bleach and rubbing alcohol filled her nose. She stopped outside the door of ER Room 3.
Her hand wrapped around the cold metal handle. Before she could push down, a deep, magnetic male voice drifted through the gap in the door.
The sound of that voice-a sound carved into her very bones-made her entire body freeze.
Her heart slammed violently against her ribs. She took a sharp breath, pushed down on the handle, and shoved the door open.
Her eyes bypassed the hospital bed entirely. They crashed straight into the broad back of a tall man standing by the window, wearing a black custom overcoat.
Hearing the door open, the man turned around slowly.
Jarred Mcknight's dark, aggressive eyes locked onto hers.
In that single second of eye contact, the eight years of separation folded into nothing.
Alaina felt the oxygen get sucked out of the room. Her fingernails dug so hard into her palms that the skin nearly broke.
Jarred's gaze dropped to the badge on her chest. His eyes darkened, becoming unreadable.
A sharp groan broke the dead silence. The woman on the bed, Chelsey Nunez, was clutching her chin, her face twisted in pain.
Jarred pulled his eyes away from Alaina. His face went completely blank.
"Chelsey, this is Dr. Strong," Jarred said.
His tone was pure ice. The professional, distant way he said her name felt like a physical slap across Alaina's face.
Alaina swallowed the bitter lump in her throat. She forced her professional mask into place, locking her emotions behind a wall of clinical detachment.
She reached into the pocket of her white coat, pulled out a pair of blue latex gloves, and snapped them onto her hands.
She walked with steady steps toward the side of the bed.
"Can you tell me exactly how you fell?" Alaina asked Chelsey, keeping her voice even.
"I was riding in Central Park," Chelsey whispered, wincing. "A stray dog ran out. I swerved and hit the pavement."
Jarred lifted his wrist. He glanced at his Patek Philippe watch. A muscle feathered in his jaw, betraying his impatience.
Alaina ignored him. She leaned over the bed, bringing her face closer to Chelsey to examine the swelling along the jawline.
