Page 45 of The Masquerade: Room 2

“I was top of my class, pre-med at Stanford.” Impressive. “Then I went on to Harvard Medical School. I graduated summa cum laude.”

“Any other doctors in the family?”

“No. My dad was never in the picture, and my mom worked three jobs to put food on the table.”

“I’m impressed. How did you put yourself through college?” I’m not usually this inquisitive, but summa cum laude at Harvard is something to be praised.

“I worked as many jobs as I could growing up. I started saving for college when I was ten and started mowing lawns in my neighborhood.”

“You don’t strike me as the outdoor type.”

“I’m not, but I was determined to become a doctor. I wasn’t handed everything on a silver platter.” I track Perrington’s gaze, taking in the opulence and wealth in this room.

“I respect that.”

“Are you from a family of doctors?”

“No. I grew up…” I stop myself. I don’t share my life story with anyone, never mind a work colleague. A resident. “Enough about that. We need more drinks. Can I get you another?”

“Yes, please.”

“I’ll be right back.” I stand and make my way through the tables back to the bar. I never let myself slip like that. It’s no one’s business but mine as to how I got to where I am today. It leaves an uneasy feeling in my chest. I don’t do well when I don’t have absolute control in any situation.

Pulling my phone from my pocket, I type out a quick message. I need to compose myself, and this is a sure-fire way to do it.

Me: Are you at home?

Lavender: No, Sir.

Me: Then go to the restroom and remove your panties.

She hesitates before answering.

Lavender: Sir, why do you want me to do that?

Me: It’s not your place to question. If you want to come back to my playroom, you’ll do as you’re told, little one.

I shove my phone back in my pocket, grab our drinks, and head back to the table, stopping to say hello to some of my fellow attendings. I know the head of cardiology is going to be pissed that I’m stealing their best potential resident. I can’t say I feel bad about it. I will always do what’s necessary when I want something.

A few minutes later, I get a text.

Lavender: Done.

Good girl.

Me: I’ll call you when I get home. Do not touch yourself.

Lavender: Yes, Sir.

Dinner is enjoyable, and I find myself deep in conversation with my new protégé. It turns out not all residents are a royal pain. I don’t bother speaking with any of the others trying to kiss my ass. If you can’t show me your skill in the operating room, I have no desire to hear about your cat, kids, or your bog-standard-vanilla life.

I don’t think I could ever live the cookie-cutter lifestyle. Becoming a Dom saved me from myself. When you grow up like I did, you have to find ways to connect with people. I’m sure a shrink would go to town on why I was drawn to BDSM and don’t even get me started on the fact that I train rather than having a long-term submissive. I’m all kinds of fucked up, but none of that matters when I operate.

Patients don’t care if I’m a warm and fuzzy human being. In fact, I think it’s often comforting that I’m focused on providing them with the best care possible rather than being their buddy. That’s what I tell myself when I keep my distance with patients. In truth, I don’t think I could do this job if I took on emotional attachments to every single person I operate on. Yes, it may make the wins even better, but the lows—emotional detachment is the only option to keep functioning and moving on to help the next person. I’m not saying I never get attached, but I try to remain professional at all times.

I’m not sure if Perrington has what it takes to remain professional with a difficult case, but we’ll find out soon enough.

By the end of the night, all I want to do is lose myself in my little one, but I can’t show weakness when it comes to her. She needs a firm hand and proper guidance. Going easy on a submissive in training does nothing to help her become a good sub.

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