Page 5 of The Mafia's Fake Wife

I ignore him, scanning the results. “His white count is elevated. Cultures are pending, but this definitely looks like an infection.”

“Elena—”

“Justin, please.” I finally look at him, letting him see a fraction of my desperation. “I need to focus on work right now. It’s all I have left.”

Something in my expression must convince him because he nods slowly. “Okay, but I’m here if you need to talk.”

“Thank you.” I turn back to the computer, relieved when he doesn’t push further. Sometimes, he’s a decent human being, and this is one of those times. It’s the other times, when he’s cocky and every inch the rich elite he was born that holds me back from confiding him. It lurks in the back of my mind to ask him for a loan. He’d have the money, but the strings attached would be too entangling. I try to pretend I’m unaware of his romantic interest, so I can’t open that door even a crack, even to finish my education without interruption.

We spend the next hour updating Dr. Patel, adjusting Mr. Abernathy’s treatment plan, and checking on other patients. The routine is comforting, the medical problems solvable in ways my personal ones aren’t. By lunchtime, I’ve almost managed to push both Casey and the mysterious man from my thoughts. Almost.

Then I step into the elevator and find myself face to face with the man from the café again. He’s alone in the elevator, standing in the back corner like it’s a throne room, and he’s the king. Recognition flashes across his face.

I freeze, one foot in the elevator and one still in the hallway. For a second, I consider backing out and waiting for the next one.

“Going down?” he asks, his deep voice filling the small space.

I hesitate, then step fully inside. The doors close behind me, trapping us together. “Fourth floor,” I say, reaching for the button panel.

“Already pressed.” He gestures to the illuminated button.

I nod and move to the opposite corner, putting as much distance between us as possible. The elevator begins its descent, and I stare fixedly at the numbers above the door, acutely aware of his presence.

The silence stretches between us, heavy with unasked questions. Who are you? Why did you say my name the way you did earlier? Why do I care?

“You changed your scrubs,” he says suddenly.

I glance down at my clean uniform, surprised he noticed. “Coffee stains aren’t very professional.”

“No.” His gaze travels over me, not leering but assessing. “Though I believe I was the cause of that particular stain.”

“It was my fault. I wasn’t looking where I was going.”

“A shared responsibility then.”

The elevator stops at the fourth floor, but neither of us moves. The doors begin to close again before I snap out of whatever trance I’m in and thrust out my arm to stop them.

“This is my floor,” I say unnecessarily.

He inclines his head slightly. “Until next time, Elena.”

The way he says my name sends another shiver through me. I step out quickly, not looking back as the doors close behind me. Why am I so certain I’ll see him again, and why am I conflicted about that?

2

Damir

Ilean against the doorway of Anton’s hospital room, watching her. Elena. She moves with quiet precision, focused, competent, and completely unaware that she’s caught my attention.

I first saw her two weeks ago, when Anton was admitted. She’d assisted the doctor overseeing Anton’s care, her name catching my ear when Anton inquired about her. Final-year med student. ER surgeon in the making. I acted like I didn’t care.

I do.

The hospital corridor bustles with activity around me, but she remains the focal point of my vision. Her dark brown hair is pulled back in a practical ponytail, a few strands escaping to frame her face. She checks Anton’s vitals with practiced efficiency, making notes on his chart. Her scrubs are a pale blue that somehow makes her skin glow under the harsh fluorescent lights.

Yesterday, I moved closer until we collided in the hospital café. Her coffee splashed across her scrubs, and she looked up at me with those wide brown eyes. For a moment, I wanted to pull her against me and taste those full lips that parted in surprise. Instead, I stepped back, apologized, and walked away.

A mistake. I rarely make those.

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