Page 7 of Never Quite Gone

“Doctor Monroe?” Sofia's voice carried that note of concern I couldn't afford to acknowledge. “Another critical incoming. And Vale's breathing down my neck about bed capacity.”

I shoved the strange moment into the box with all the other things I couldn't look at too closely. The smell of blood and betadine anchored me to now. This was real. This was where I could still make a difference.

“Tell Vale he'll get his update when I'm done keeping people alive.” The words came out sharp enough to cut, but Sofia just nodded.

“Two minutes to arrival,” the speaker announced. “Multiple trauma, suspected closed head injury with midline shift...”

I moved toward the ambulance bay, already focused on the next crisis. But something had shifted, like a key turning in a lock I hadn't known existed. The feeling lingered, an echo of those blue eyes that had seen straight through my carefully maintained bullshit.

The ER settled into that weird post-battle quiet, like a war zone after the bombs stop falling. Three patients patched up enough for ICU, two walking wounded sent home with prescriptions and prayers, and one... one joining the ghosts that already haunted these halls.

I ripped off my trauma gown, cramming it into the biohazard bin with enough force to make the lid rattle. Exhaustion crept in like a bad hangover while I typed up my notes, each clinical phrase a wall between me and the memories scratching at the back of my skull.

But it wasn't the trauma cases playing on repeat in my head. It was him - Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Impossible from the window. His face stuck there like gum on a shoe, refusing to be filed away in my neat little boxes of repression.

Sofia materialized with her usual lifeline - protein bar and coffee that actually resembled coffee. She'd stopped asking if I was okay after Michael died. We both knew that was a bullshit question.

“You good?” she asked instead, keeping it light while her eyes did their PhD-level analysis of my mental state.

We pretended she meant the trauma cases, the dead kid. Not the way my hands had betrayed me for a split second when that victim came in wearing glass like diamonds in his skin...

Three seconds. Lock it down.

“Board meeting in thirty,” Sofia cut in, watching me with that look that said she saw too damn much. “Better change before Vale starts his fashion critique. Again.”

I grabbed my tablet, grateful for the escape route. The protein bar went into my pocket like always - another prop in this play I was performing. But I took the coffee. Some habits were worth keeping.

My office closet held the backup suit like some kind of security blanket. Michael's idea - “You never know when you'll need to look the part,” he'd say, fixing my tie with that crooked smile that always made me feellike-

Three seconds. Fucking stop.

I changed like a soldier prepping for battle, each movement measured and controlled. The charcoal grey suit was another one of Michael's picks, armor made of designer labels. Today it felt about as protective as tissue paper.

The construction proposal glared at me from my desk. I forced myself to focus on the Rothschild Development plans, searching for anything that might screw with ambulance access - exactly the kind of ammo Vale would love to use in his neurosurgery crusade.

The boardroom buzzed like a hornet's nest when I walked in, Vale holding court like some discount Zeus among his followers. His silver hair caught the fluorescent light while he worked his charm, board members clustering around him like moths to a flame. The bastard had a gift for making everyone feel like they were in on some brilliant scheme.

I took my usual spot, laying out my weapons - data, statistics, cold hard facts. Six years of these meetings had taught me the choreography: Vale would push his agenda, I'd counter with logic, and the board would waffle like professional politicians. Same shit, different Tuesday.

Then the air changed.

It hit like the pressure drop before a storm, making my skin prickle. My head snapped up before I could stop myself, pulled by something I didn't want to analyze too closely.

He stood in the doorway like he owned the fucking universe, not just the building. That suit - charcoal grey like mine but somehow more real - seemed to eat light rather than reflect it. His presence filled the room like smoke, making everything else fade to background noise.

Our eyes met.

Three seconds. That was the rule.

But time went sideways, reality bending around that blue-steel gaze. The same electric shock from the ER hit me again, making my heart forget its rhythm.

“Mister Rothschild, welcome to Presbyterian.” Bennett's voice shattered the moment like glass. “We're honored to have you join us today.”

Alexander Rothschild.

The name hit like a punch to the gut, familiar in a way that made zero sense, impossible in a way I couldn't ignore. My carefully constructed reality trembled like a house of cards in a hurricane.

He moved through the room like a predator playing at being human. Everything about him screamed old money and older power, from his perfectly styled hair with its artistic touch of grey to shoes that probably cost more than my car. And yet...

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