Page 2 of Filthy Rich Bosses

But if I lose him, what’s left?

I grip the steering wheel tightly, my knuckles turning white as I stare blankly through the windshield.

I try to start the car, but my hands are shaking too much to turn the key. The weight of what just happened crashes down on me, and I let out a shaky breath.

"Damn it," I whisper, closing my eyes. "Sarah, what am I supposed to do?"

All I can see is Sarah laughing as Zeus chased his tail in the backyard, the three of us curled up on the couch during movie nights, Zeus comforting me in the days after Sarah's funeral.

"I can't lose you too, buddy," I say, my voice thick with emotion. "You're all I have left of her."

The engine hums beneath me, and for a moment, I just sit there, unable to move. My heart is still pounding, a frantic rhythm that matches my thoughts. I don’t know how to face the day anymore, how to face the people who depend on me when I can barely hold it together myself.

I close my eyes for a moment, taking in a deep breath, steadying myself. I need to find a way to keep moving, even when it feels like everything is falling apart.

With shaking hands, I pull out of the driveway.

Chapter 2

Tessa

The waiting room is a cacophony of barks, meows, and anxious pet owners. It’s like a little concert of fur friends.

I weave through the crowd, my arms full of charts and a stethoscope dangling around my neck. The phone at the front desk rings incessantly, and I catch Sabrina's harried glance as she juggles multiple lines.

"Tessa, can you handle intake?" she calls out, her voice strained. "We're swamped up here."

I nod, already heading toward the scale in the corner. "On it. Send 'em back."

A golden retriever bounds up to me, nearly knocking me over in its excitement. I can't help but grin as I scratch behind its ears.

"Hey there, big guy. Let's see how much you weigh, huh?"

As I coax the dog onto the scale, I notice the owner tapping her foot impatiently. I try to push down my annoyance. Why are some people such assholes?

"Sixty-nine pounds," I announce, jotting it down on the chart. "Right this way, please."

I lead them to an exam room, my mind already on the next patient. It's days like these that make me question why I didn't just open a shelter instead of working in a clinic. At least then I'd only have to deal with the animals. Unfortunately, running an animal shelter doesn't pay the bills.

As I catch sight of a trembling chihuahua in the arms of an elderly woman, I remember why I'm here. These pets need me, even if their owners sometimes drive me up the wall.

I call out the next name on my list—Morgan Blaise—plastering on my best professional smile. It's going to be a long day, but for the animals, it's worth it.

Morgan snatches up her dog’s leash and storms over, her heels clicking aggressively against the linoleum floor. A small, fluffy dog trots at her side, its leash pulled taut.

"It's about time," she snaps, her voice sharp enough to cut glass. "I've been waiting for ages."

I bite my tongue, reminding myself that it's not the dog's fault its owner is a piece of shit. "I apologize for the wait. If you could please place your dog on the scale?"

She rolls her eyes but complies, practically dropping the poor thing onto the metal surface. I wince internally, my heart aching for the little white fluffball.

As I record the weight, something catches my eye. Despite the abundant fur, there's a noticeable dip in the dog's sides. I frown, double-checking the numbers.

"Hmm," I mutter, more to myself than to the impatient woman tapping her foot beside me.

"What?" she demands, her tone dripping with irritation.

I choose my words carefully, knowing how some owners can react. "Your dog seems to be a bit underweight for its size and breed. Have there been any changes in his appetite recently?"

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