Page 6 of Gloves Off

Make shopping your full-time job so we can find a real doctor,hesaid. It’s the first time I’ve seen him since the Hawaii trip our friends made us go on this summer. A full week of ignoring each other, not even looking at each other.

“Two minutes.”

I jump out of my skin. Dr. Heather Joshi, the director of the athlete recovery program here at the hospital, leans on my doorframe with a knowing smile.

“That’s how long you’ve been staring at him.”

My face burns. “I wasglaring. Because he’s a dick.”

She sits in the chair opposite me, nodding sagely. “Mmm. Yes. Right.”

“I hate him.” She knows this.

She taps her chin with a manicured fingernail. “Mhm. And that’s why you let him think you’re a spoiled little princess?”

Heather’s known me since I broke my ankle as a teenager and she was the physician overseeing my recovery and rehabilitation. Her passion, enthusiasm, and dedication to her work showed me that athlete injury recovery is my passion and purpose, and her flawless style showed me that you could be great at your job and look incredible doing it.

The athlete injury recovery program we designed together is one of my favorite things in the world, along with sparkly dresses, my two pet bunnies, and heels that make me feel powerful and hot.

I glance at her heels. “New?”

“Don’t try to distract me.”

“So I let him believe his assumptions. So what? He doesn’t get the privilege of knowing me.”

Despite what Volkov thinks, I did not grow up wealthy. I grew up with teenage parents scraping by. Yes, my last name is Greene, and yes, it’sthoseGreenes, but my wealthy, powerful grandfather cut my dad off when my mom got pregnant at seventeen. I went to public school, I worked my ass off to get scholarships to university,playing for The University of British Columbia’s Women’s Soccer team, and then I worked even harder in medical school. Everything I’ve achieved, I’ve earned.

I get a sick sense of satisfaction from letting him believe the worst of me, though.

Not all of us could afford private school.

God, Volkov’s such an asshole. So controlling and arrogant—like my ex, Liam. Like so many men in medicine. Like my grandfather, who left me an inheritance when he passed a few years ago, but with the caveat that I need to be married to inherit.

I’m nottouchingthat money. I don’t need it, and I love the idea that he’s glowering up at me from hell, furious that he can’t control me.

Besides, after how Liam manipulated me, I would never get married. It’s too easy for men to use marriage as a tool to control women.

I refocus my attention on Heather. Under her lab coat, she’s wearing a tailored dress in striking fuchsia, her favorite color. It matches her lipstick, a stunning contrast to her brown skin.

“That is your color,” I say, like I always do when she wears it.

She smiles to herself. “I know.” Her expression sobers. “I met with the hospital board this morning, and I have bad news.”

Uh-oh. It’s the warning shot. They teach us this in medical school when we learn how to tell the patient’s family their loved one has passed.

“The program didn’t obtain the next round of funding,” she says.

I stop breathing. In research, funding is everything. It pays for our salaries, the lab and office space, equipment, everything.

A loss of funding is a death sentence. I feel sick. “So we’re done.”

She gives me a sad smile. “As of May, yes, the program is done.”

“We have until May, though.”

She shakes her head with an empathetic expression.No, your loved one is not coming back.

“If we don’t have funding by January, the hospital will book the space out to someone who does.” She sighs, and I can see she’s trying to be strong for me, but she’s pissed as hell. “It’s all money,” she says with a touch of bitterness.

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