Chapter 3

Finnegan’s POV

"Ophelia?"

The name escaped my lips before I was fully conscious, materializing from the depths of a dream into the darkness of my hotel suite. For a moment, I thought I was still dreaming—that familiar scent couldn't possibly be real after six years of absence. Yet the weight against my side was unmistakably solid, the warmth undeniably human.

I opened my eyes fully, immediately alert despite having been in deep sleep moments before. Years of surgical emergencies had trained my body to transition from rest to complete awareness in seconds. The silver-blue glow of the skyline filtered through the windows, providing just enough illumination to confirm what my other senses had already detected.

She was here. In my bed. After six years.

Ophelia Clarke, the woman who had walked out of my life without a backward glance, now lay inches from me, clad only in delicate undergarments that left little to the imagination. Her soft hair spilled across my pillowcase, her breathing carrying the distinct rhythm of intoxication.

Her startled gasp pierced the silence as she finally registered my voice. I moved with the precision that had made me one of the country's top neurosurgeons, swiftly pinning her beneath me with one fluid motion. My forearm pressed against the mattress above her shoulders, caging but not touching her as I looked down into those eyes I'd tried so desperately to forget.

"Finnegan?" Her voice trembled with shock, pupils dilating as recognition dawned.

The city lights caught the planes of her face—more defined now than in her medical school days, the softness of youth refined into elegant maturity. Her skin still held that flawless quality I remembered, though her eyes now harbored a wariness that was new. Six years had transformed the eager, brilliant medical student into something more polished, more guarded.

More beautiful.

I suppressed that unbidden thought as quickly as it surfaced.

"Ophelia," I drawled, deliberately using her professional title, watching how it made her flinch. "Six years without a word, and this is how you choose to reintroduce yourself? I must say, your approach lacks subtlety."

Her chest rose and fell rapidly beneath me, her heart visibly pounding at the base of her throat. I could practically see her mind working through the alcohol haze, desperately trying to process this unexpected situation.

"I—" she stammered, her voice carrying that precise diction she always adopted when trying to appear more sober than she was. "I obviously have the wrong room..."

"Do you?" I arched an eyebrow, not bothering to mask my skepticism. "The door to my penthouse suite just happened to be unlocked, and you just happened to wander in and undress? That seems remarkably convenient."

"I thought this was my room," she insisted, making a halfhearted attempt to push against my chest. "5588."

"This is 5888," I corrected, refusing to budge. "Quite a difference."

The fine silk sheets rustled beneath us as she shifted uncomfortably. The familiar scent of her perfume—still the same after all these years—mingled with the distinct notes of expensive alcohol. Not just any liquor, but the signature cocktails from the hotel's exclusive bar downstairs. I'd recognized them immediately.

"Finnegan," she whispered, her professional composure slipping. "I had too much to drink at Lisa's birthday party. It was an honest mistake."

I studied her features, looking for the tells I'd memorized during our time together—the slight twitch at the corner of her mouth when she was lying, the way her left eyebrow would barely lift when she was hiding something. But the alcohol had dulled those micro-expressions, leaving her face an unreadable mask.

"An honest mistake," I repeated flatly. "You think I believe it?"

Her eyes widened, genuine hurt flashing across her features before hardening into indignation. "I mean it," she bit out. "I didn't even know you were here. I have work tomorrow morning—please, just let me leave."

I remained motionless, watching emotions play across her face like shadows. Six years ago, I'd believed I could read her like an open book. I'd been catastrophically wrong.

"I don't think I will," I said softly, danger edging my tone. "You came to my room, Ophelia. You climbed into my bed. What exactly did you expect would happen?"

She pushed against me again, this time with more force. "This is sexual harassment, Finnegan. Let me go."

I caught her wrist effortlessly, using the precise amount of pressure that would restrain without bruising—a calculation as automatic to me as breathing. My fingers wrapped around delicate bones that could have belonged to a different woman entirely from the one I'd known in Boston. This Ophelia felt simultaneously familiar and foreign.

"Harassment?" I repeated, allowing a cold smile to touch my lips. "An interesting accusation from someone who entered my private suite uninvited and proceeded to undress."

She shifted, her bare legs brushing against the sheets as she murmured something about needing to leave.

"I shouldn't be here," she said, her voice soft but edged with panic. She swung her legs off the bed, her movements jerky, like she was trying to escape a trap she hadn't realized she'd walked into. But I wasn't ready to let her go. Not yet. Not when every inch of me was screaming to close the distance between us.

"No," I said, my voice rougher than I intended. I reached out, my hand catching her wrist as she tried to stand. Her skin was warm, soft, and I felt her tense under my grip. She tugged once, weakly, her hazel eyes darting to mine, wide with something between fear and confusion. "Finnegan, let me go," she whispered, but there was a tremor in her words that betrayed her.

I didn't. Instead, I pulled her back toward me, gently but firm enough that she stumbled, falling against my chest. Her hands pressed against me, trying to push away, but I could feel the hesitation in her fingers, the way they lingered just a second too long. "Stay," I said, my breath hot against her ear as I slid an arm around her waist, pinning her against me. She squirmed, her body twisting in my hold, but I tightened my grip, my other hand sliding up her arm to cradle the back of her neck.

"I didn't say you can leave."