Page 6 of The Mafia's Fake Wife

She turns now, checking something on the monitor beside Anton’s bed, completely absorbed in her work. I study the curve of her neck, the way her fingers move with precision over the equipment. There’s something captivating about watching someone who’s good at what they do.

When she finally turns and sees me, she startles. The clipboard in her hands nearly slips from her grasp, the plastic edge catching on her thumb before she recovers with a deft movement. Her fingertips whiten as she grips it tighter.

A slight flush blooms across her cheekbones, warming her complexion like sunrise on terracotta. Her throat works as she swallows.

“Goodness,” she says, smoothing her free hand down the front of her scrubs. The fabric rustles softly. Though her voice maintains its professional cadence, the slight tremor beneath her words betrays her. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

She shifts her weight, the rubber soles of her shoes squeaking faintly against the linoleum. The scent of antiseptic and something lighter—her shampoo, perhaps—drifts between us in the sterile hospital air.

“You were focused.” I push off from the doorframe and step into the room. The linoleum floor creaks slightly under my weight. “I’m Damir Antonov.”

Her eyes widen slightly. Interesting. Maybe she’s heard of me, or maybe it’s a more instinctive response, like when a rabbit scents a coyote and freezes. The survival instinct that never fails to recognize a predator.

“Elena Clarke,” she says, extending her hand. The fluorescent lights catch on her silver watch as she moves, a practical timepiece with a worn leather band. Her name fits her, elegant yet unpretentious.

I take it, noting how small it is compared to mine. Her palm disappears almost entirely within my grasp, though there’s nothing fragile in the way she holds herself. Her skin is warm, her grip firm despite the slight tremble I detect. When our hands touch, her pulse jumps, visible at the delicate skin of her wrist, a betrayal her composed expression nearly manages to hide.

“Dr. Clarke,” I say, releasing her hand after a moment longer than necessary. “We met yesterday though not formally. I’m the one who ruined your scrubs with coffee.”

She withdraws her hand quickly, breaking our connection. “I remember. The elevator too.” Her voice carries a hint of embarrassment as two bright spots of color appear on her cheeks.

“I owe you a coffee and a new set of scrubs,” I say, watching her face for a reaction.

“That’s not necessary.” Elena tucks a strand of dark hair behind her ear, the movement quick and unconscious. I follow the gesture, gaze lingering on the graceful curve where her neck meets her shoulder in a delicate slope disappearing beneath the collar of her lab coat.

“I insist.” I step closer, near enough to catch her scent, antiseptic soap mixed with something warmer and floral. Despite the narrowing space between us, she holds her ground. The wariness in her expression remains, but curiosity flickers there too, a question she doesn’t ask aloud. “It’s the least I can do.” My voice drops lower, meant for her ears alone. “After all, I ruined a perfectly good morning for you.”

Her smile tenses. “Maybe not a perfectly good morning.” She clamps her mouth tightly closed then, as if she’s revealed more than she had planned.

The room feels smaller with both of us in it. Anton watches our interaction with undisguised interest from his bed, but I ignore him. “How is our patient doing today?” I ask, nodding toward Anton.

She glances at her clipboard, professional mask sliding back into place. “His recovery is progressing well. The wound is healing nicely, and there’s no sign of infection. His physical therapy will start tomorrow.”

“Good to hear.” I move to stand beside her. “You seem very thorough.”

“I try to be.” She shifts her weight from one foot to the other, creating a fraction more distance between us. Her white sneaker squeaks against the linoleum floor. “Thoroughness saves lives in medicine.”

Her body language speaks volumes—the way her shoulders tense when I stand near, and how she clutches the clipboard against her chest like a shield. She’s uncomfortable with my proximity, that much is clear. Yet I notice how she sways slightlytoward me when I speak, as if pulled by an invisible thread she’s fighting against.

“Do all your patients get this level of attention?” I ask, my voice low enough that Anton can’t hear from his bed.

She looks up at me, chin raised with professional pride. “Every single one though not all of them have armed guards outside their door.”

I frown. “What do you mean?”

She gives me a skeptical look. “Since Mr. Mikhailov was admitted, a man in a dark suit has been in this hallway, never farther than the waiting room. The face changes, but the dark suit, rigid posture, and carefully altered jacket hiding a side holster all stay the same.” After a pause, she says, “It doesn’t take a genius to discern you have a guard on my patient.”

“Just as a precaution.”

Her left brow slowly arches. “Right, in case the deer comes back to finish the job. It was a hunting accident, right?”

I almost laugh but choke it back. She’s far too perceptive, which should alarm me more than amuse me as it does. “Animals are intelligent.”

She makes a noncommittal sound as Anton speaks.

“According to Dr. Patel, Elena is the best student they’ve got,” Anton says from the bed. “She’s going to be a surgeon.”

She smiles at him, genuine warmth replacing her more aloof demeanor for a moment. “That’s the plan, if I can afford to finish my degree.” The comment seems to slip out unintentionally. She presses her lips together, as if regretting the admission.

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