Page 1 of A Prescription to My Heart

Chapter 1

Talia

Themovingtruckrumblesaway, leaving me standing in the driveway of my new house with hands on my hips, surveying the mess. Boxes are stacked inside, furniture half-assembled. The air smells of cut grass and warm pavement, the early evening sun stretching shadows across the sidewalk. A dog barks somewhere in the distance.

This street is nice—clean, quiet. Too quiet. The kind of neighborhood where people peek through their blinds instead of stepping outside to say hello.

And then there’s my neighbor.

Dr. Soren Calloway.

Even if I hadn’t already known who he was, the way the moving crew whispered about him would’ve clued me in. Infamous, brilliant, and apparently colder than the scalpels he wields. Some say he’s a genius. Others say he’s impossible.

I say he’s standing right there.

The man himself steps out of a sleek, black BMW parked in the driveway next door. Dressed in dark slacks and a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, he looks like he belongs in a high-end medical drama. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, and unfairly good-looking with his dark, auburn hair neatly combed, his expression unreadable.

I take my shot.

“Hey there!” I call out, walking toward him, hands loose at my sides. “I’m your new neighbor. Talia Vance.”

Nothing. Not even a glance.

I press on, undeterred. “I think we work at the same hospital, actually. Pediatrics?”

Still nothing. He strides toward his front door, moving like a man with exactly zero interest in small talk.

Okay, so he’s one ofthosedoctors. The kind that treat social interaction like an unnecessary complication.

Fine.

I pick up my pace, cutting the distance between us before he can disappear inside. “Listen, I don’t need a housewarming gift or a welcoming committee, but a simplehellowouldn’t kill you.”

He stops. Turns his head slightly, just enough for me to see the sharp edge of his profile.

His voice is cool, detached. “Hello.”

That’s it. No warmth. No curiosity. Just a begrudging acknowledgment before he starts moving again.

I scoff. “Wow. A man of many words.”

His fingers tighten around the keys in his hand, knuckles briefly flexing. It’s the only sign I’ve gotten that he’s even remotely affected by my presence.

He doesn’t look back when he responds. “Enjoy your evening, Ms. Vance.”

And then the door slams in my face.

I blink. Then laugh, shaking my head. “Charming.”

I head back inside my own house, kicking the door shut behind me. That man has the social skills of a brick wall.

And yet, somehow, he’s one of the most sought-after pediatric cardiothoracic surgeons in the city. Patients’ parentsrequesthim. Nurses tiptoe around him. His reputation precedes him.

But here’s the thing. I’ve worked with doctors like him before. I know their type. They’re not nearly as intimidating as they think they are.

I set my bag down on the kitchen counter and glance out the window. His house is nearly identical to mine—same modern design, same floor-to-ceiling windows. But through those windows I can see the only difference is that his place looks like a showroom. No clutter. No warmth. Just sleek, sterile perfection.

Figures.

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