"Dr. Mandy," a resident stammered, jogging to keep up with her stride. "The neuro consult in Room 304-they're asking for your opinion on the synaptic response."
Giselle adjusted her wire-rimmed glasses. The surgical mask covered the lower half of her face, and her hair was pulled back in a severe, tight bun. No one looked at her and saw Giselle Villarreal. They saw Dr. Mandy, the phantom of the neurological world. She wore no jewelry, no makeup, just a plain, functional watch on her wrist that belied the billions in her bank account.
"Increase the dosage of the inhibitor by 2%," she said, her voice crisp. "And check the spinal fluid pressure. You missed the micro-tremors in his left hand."
The resident blinked, awestruck. "Right. Yes. Thank you, Doctor."
Giselle checked the generic medical watch on her wrist. 3:00 PM. She had exactly twenty minutes before she had to pick up Kim from her ballet class.
She turned the corner toward the elevators, her mind already shifting from neurotoxins to dinner plans.
Thud.
Something small and solid slammed into her legs.
Giselle stumbled back, catching her balance. She looked down.
A little boy, no older than five, was clinging to her lab coat. He was dressed in a miniature, tailored navy suit that probably cost more than most people's cars. His dark hair was tousled, and his big, brown eyes were wide with panic.
"Shh!" he hissed, pressing a finger to his lips.
"Young man?" she started, reaching down to detach him.
"Hide me!" he whispered urgently. "The gorillas are coming!"
"Gorillas?"
"Jamin! Master Jamin!" Heavy voices echoed from the main entrance.
Giselle looked up. Three men in black suits were scanning the crowd, looking frantic. Bodyguards.
The boy, Jamin, looked up at her. His eyes... Giselle froze. Those eyes. They were the color of espresso. They were Joseph's eyes.
Her heart hammered against her ribs. This was Joseph's son. Clydie's son.
She should have pushed him away. She should have called the guards. But the terror in his little face triggered something primal in her.
She stepped to the side, flaring her white coat open just enough to shield him between her and a large potted fern. She pulled a chart from under her arm and pretended to read it.
The bodyguards ran past them, their earpieces buzzing.
When they were gone, Jamin peeked out. He let out a dramatic sigh of relief. "That was close. They are so annoying."
He looked up at her, tilting his head. "Wow."
"Wow what?" she asked, trying to keep her voice steady.
"You have really pretty eyes," he said solemnly. "You look like the mommy in my dreams."
Giselle's breath hitched. "I think you're confusing me with someone else."
"Nope," he said, popping the 'p'. He grabbed her hand. His fingers were small and warm. "I heard the nurse call you Dr. Mandy. Are you the boss here?"
"I work here," she corrected lightly, her pulse still racing.
"Are you single? I need a girlfriend."
Giselle couldn't help it. A laugh escaped her mask. "I'm a little old for you."
"Not for me," he said, shaking his head. "For my daddy."
Her smile vanished.
"My daddy needs a girlfriend. Or a doctor. Or both." Jamin suddenly clutched his chest and groaned. "Oh no. My heart. I think I'm dying."
Giselle dropped to one knee instantly, her fingers finding his radial pulse. Strong. Regular.
She narrowed her eyes at him. "Your heart is fine."
He dropped the act immediately, grinning. "Okay, you caught me. I'm not sick. But my daddy is. He's really sick."
"Where is your mother?" she asked, the words tasting like ash. "Shouldn't she be helping him?"
Jamin's face fell. The playful spark vanished. "I don't like her," he muttered, kicking at the floor tile. "She's mean. She just wants Daddy's money. Daddy doesn't like her either. He kicked her out."
Giselle's brain short-circuited. Kicked her out? But the news... the tabloids painted them as the perfect power couple.
"Dr. Mandy to the ER. Dr. Mandy to the ER," the overhead speaker blared.
Giselle stood up. "I have to go, Jamin. Go find your guards."
"Wait!" He held onto her sleeve. "Please. My daddy... he hurts. He hits his head against the wall because it hurts so bad."
She stopped. That sounded like neurotoxic residue syndrome.
"Please," he whispered, his eyes filling with tears. "Help him."
---
