Page 2 of The Mafia's Fake Wife

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. My brain has short-circuited, caught between embarrassment over the coffee and temporary confusion about how he knows my name.

He smiles slightly. “Nothing to say?”

He lets go of my wrist, and I realize how tightly he’d been holding it. Not painful, but... possessive. Controlling. My skin tingles where his fingers have been.

Without another word, he steps around me and continues toward the exit, people instinctively moving out of his path. No one bumps into him. No one would dare.

I walk away fast, a shiver running up my spine. The coffee stain on my scrubs is cooling against my skin, but my face still burns. Who was that? And how did he know my name? The answer comes to me in a flash as I recall his gaze on my chest. Duh, it’s on my name tag.

I push through the double doors leading to the staff areas, trying to shake off the encounter. I have bigger problems than mysterious men in expensive suits, like how I’m going to come up with nearly twenty thousand dollars in the next forty-eight hours.

Inside the break room, Justin is already waiting, scrolling through his phone. He looks up when I enter, his friendly smile flickering when I barely acknowledge him. “Rough morning?” he asks, tucking away his phone.

I toss my empty coffee cup in the trash. “You could say that.”

Justin and I started our clinical rotations together last year. He’s smart if too eager sometimes, and he has this weird competition between us built up in his mind since he’s second in class, and I’m first.

“Coffee stain?” He points to the brown splotch on my blue scrubs.

“Yeah.” I grab a paper towel and wet it in the sink, dabbing at the stain. “Ran into someone.”

“Must have been some collision.” He grabs his clipboard from the table. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Just a rude guy in an expensive suit.” I toss away the paper towel. “Probably some hospital donor who thinks he owns the place.”

Justin raises an eyebrow. “Was he older? Gray hair, glasses, and walks like he’s got a stick up his?—”

“No. Younger. Dark hair. Tall.” I grab my own clipboard, checking the patient roster for the day. “Doesn’t matter. Let’s focus on work.”

“Sure thing.” Justin’s voice carries a note of curiosity I choose to ignore. “We’ve got rounds in five minutes. Dr. Patel wants us to present on the kidney transplant in 307.”

I nod, grateful for the change of subject. Work is the one area of my life that still makes sense. The one place where I know exactly what I’m doing. “I reviewed his labs last night,” I say, flipping through my notes. “Creatinine levels are stabilizing, but I’m concerned about the slight fever he developed.”

Justin nods, and we fall into our familiar rhythm, discussing symptoms and treatment options as we head for the floor. This is what I’m good at. This is what I’ve worked so hard for. This is what Casey is about to take away from me.

I try to focus on the patient files, but my mind keeps drifting back to the man in the café. The way he said my name. The cold assessment in his eyes. I need to forget him. I have real problems to solve, but as we step into the elevator, I catch myself glancing back toward the café, half-expecting to see him watching me. The doors close, and I exhale, relieved and disappointed all at once.

“You sure you’re okay?” asks Justin with concern.

“I’m fine.” The lie comes easily after weeks of practice. “Just tired.”

The elevator climbs, and I straighten my shoulders, pushing aside thoughts of Casey, the tuition notice, and the mysterious man. For the next twelve hours, I’ll be Dr. Clarke, focused and professional. Elena with the collapsing life can wait.

But as the elevator doors open to our floor, I can still smell that lingering scent of vanilla, musk, and cedar. Still feel the firm grip on my wrist. Still hear the way he said my name.

Elena.

Like he knew me.

Like heowned me.

Dr. Patel is waiting at the nurses’ station, her silver-streaked hair pulled back in a tight bun. She glances up from her tablet as we approach.

“Clarke, Kahlen, you’re late.” She doesn’t look at her watch. She doesn’t need to.

“Sorry, Dr. Patel,” Justin says. “Won’t happen again.”

I nod in agreement, though we’re only two minutes past our scheduled time. In Dr. Patel’s world, that’s practically a cardinal sin.

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