Page 160 of Wicked Proposal
“Ms. Winters,” Smithers growls, “if you insist on denying your mistake, we’ll have no choice but to take this to court.”
“I’m certain Nurse Winters knows better than to cost this hospital a lawsuit with its newest, biggest donor,” Adams hisses, his tone like ice. “Especially when she’s already facing a month’s suspension without pay.”
“What?” I say. “You can’t suspend me. I didn’t do anything wrong. I need this job, I?—”
“I don’t care,” Adams snarls. “You made this mess. A month off will teach you respect. Now, Mr. Smithers, is there anything else we can do to ease your client’s recovery?”
“There is.” He fixes me with a condescending gaze. “In his infinite generosity, my client is prepared to overlook the incident.”
“Great,” I rasp. “Then we’re done here. If you’ll excuse me?—”
“Provided,” he interrupts, “that Ms. Winters apologizes.”
I’m seething. Burning with rage like never before. “No,” I spit.
“Excuse me?”
“I said no.” I stand up and get in Smithers’s face. “He comes here with fake analyses, trumped-up charges, and then expectsmeto apologize?” I point at Brad, still sitting leisurely on the couch, like a king on his freaking throne. “Like hell I will.”
“Nurse Winters.” Dr. Adams stands up too, his voice like ice. “Do it.”
“No.”
“Apologize now,” he growls. “Or I won’t stop at a suspension.”
Betrayal burns behind my eyes. I knew Adams hated me, but to this point?
It’s not that,the rational part of me says.Brad’s a donor now. Adams isn’t going to piss on the hand that feeds him.
If I refuse now, I can kiss my job goodbye. I can kiss mylifegoodbye.
And I won’t let Brad take that from me again.
I swallow the lump in my throat. Then, staring Brad right in the face, I grit out, “I’m sorry.”
“Didn’t sound like you meant that,Nurse Winters.”
“I. Am. Sorry.” I spit each word like venom. “Are we done now?”
“I believe so.” Dr. Adams shakes their hands again. “Gentlemen. My assistant will show you out.”
“See you soon, sweet thing,” Brad drawls on his way out.
I clench my fists. Humiliation is burning in my veins. I’m this close to crying, but I won’t let the tears fall.
I won’t let him see me break.
49
YULIAN
Cards slap down in quiet rhythm. A flick, a breath, the shuffle of chips.
“More vodka,” Rurik snaps at a tux-wearing waiter.
Same old Rurik.Utterly unsuited to this game as he is to everything else that requires more than thirty seconds of deliberation.
Russian poker isn’t about luck—it’s a test of patience. Reading your opponents before they get a read on you.
