Page 31 of Wistful Whispers
The Same Day
Thisconferenceroomiscold, sterile.
It reeks of over-brewed coffee and desperation.
Jesus. Of course it does.
The room is where careers end—quietly, efficiently.
Is this the end of mine?
Fuck me. If residency wasn’t stressful enough, I’ve spent the past few months mired in a legal nightmare.
I never anticipated all my years of hard work, focus, and dedication could go down the tube in an instant.
Oh, it can.Everythingrides on today.
I roll my shoulders back, unsuccessfully trying to shake the tension bearing down between my shoulder blades.
Marcella Delgado walks in, a picture of controlled power, with two other attorneys, probably junior. She wears an emerald-green blazer, cinched at the waist, paired with a black silk blouse skimming sinful curves. Her pencil skirt hugs her full hips, ending above the knee, and her heels—lethal, black, and at least four inches high—show off her shapely calves.
My mentor, Bryce Caldwell, lied. Told me she was a middle-aged ballbuster. A fat, ruthless bitch who would eat me alive if I let her.
The woman in front of me?
She’s fuckingstunning.
Not just beautiful. Luscious. Striking in a way I can’t ignore. Her long, chestnut-brown hair is pulled into a sleek bun. Full lips are painted in some deep, red shade, making my mouth long to kiss them. She’s impeccably dressed, poised, and wholly unimpressed with my existence.
With a calculated glance in my direction, I can already feel her pulling apart every molecule of my being. Dissecting me with nothing more than a sharp gaze and an air of ruthless determination.
Yet, I can’t take my eyes off her, which is a huge fucking problem. The sharp pull of attraction is unexpected, so I immediately try to shove it down.
Get it together, Seamus.This woman is here to bury you alive, not join you in a fucking stairwell.
God, I’m pathetic.
Oh, I still feel it, though. Thrumming under my skin. A heat. A hunger. Instinctive. Desire, dark and inappropriate, curling low in my gut.
A reaction like I’ve never experienced in my life.
My dick is getting hard, for fuck’s sake.
Socompletelyuntimely, it pisses me the fuck off.
I can’t be thinking about her like this. Not when my career is hanging in the balance. Not for the one person who’s bound and determined to make sure my future in neurosurgery ends before it even truly begins.
I exhale sharply, dragging my focus back to the task ahead. I’m on a razor’s edge. Rattled beyond belief.
She hasn’t even spoken yet.
Beside me, my attorney, Sarah Mahoney, clears her throat and leans in slightly, whispering, “Remember what we discussed. This is a deposition, Dr. McGloughlin. I can’t interject or object to anything unless Ms. Delgado—” she gestures at my executioner, “asks you something blatantly illegal or improper.”
I nod, barely listening, determined to pull my shit together.
“You need to answer everything and I strongly recommend keeping it brief. Stick to the facts. No embellishment, no unnecessary details. If she pauses, let her. Don’t fill the silence. You’re a doctor. You understand the power of controlled breathing,” Sarah reminds me quietly, patting the top of my hand like a goddamn child.
Nevertheless, it’s a good reminder to stay true to who I am. What I do. I know how to keep my hands steady under pressure. I’m cool as a cucumber when performing procedures requiring absolute precision.
