Chapter 3

Finnegan’s POV

The soft glow of crystal chandeliers barely penetrated my consciousness as I lay in the presidential suite. After sixteen straight hours in the OR performing a complex neurosurgery, even the cotton sheets felt like clouds against my skin. The woody notes of my fragrance mingled with the sterile scent that always clung to surgeons, no matter how thoroughly we scrubbed.

I was drifting between sleep and wakefulness when I heard the electronic lock disengage. Years of medical training had honed my instincts–something wasn't right. The footsteps were too determined, too angry for hotel staff. I remained still, my muscles coiled beneath the duvet, waiting.

"Mark, you piece of shit!" A woman's voice shattered the silence. A voice I hadn't heard in six years, yet one I'd recognize anywhere. Ophelia.

My mind instantly cleared, though I kept my breathing deep and regular. What was she doing here? And why was she looking for ... did I hear it right? Mark?

"Lisa gave you her best years, and this is how you repay her?" The fury in her voice was raw, uncontained–so unlike the controlled precision she'd shown in med school back then.

I sensed her movement before I felt it–the rush of air as she swung at what she thought was another man's sleeping form. Amateur. Even exhausted, my reflexes were sharper. The moment her fist connected with the duvet, I caught her wrist in a precise grip, using her own momentum to pull her off balance.

One fluid movement was all it took to reverse our positions. She landed on the mattress with a soft gasp, my arm effectively pinning her in place. The crystal chandeliers cast a soft glow across her face, and for a moment, I allowed myself to really look at her.

Six years had transformed her into something else entirely. Her white coat spoke of professional success, but it was more than that. There was a maturity in her features, a quiet confidence that came from proving herself in one of the most demanding specialties in medicine, which had once captivated me and now it had only grown more striking.

Her eyes widened in recognition, tears gathering at the corners. I could feel her pulse racing beneath my grip, her breath coming in short gasps. The scent of her perfume–still the same after all these years–threatened to unlock memories I'd carefully locked away.

Study sessions that stretched into dawn, the way she'd rest her head on my shoulder when exhaustion finally overtook her. The proud smile on her face when she nailed her first sutures. The warmth of her hand in mine as we walked through campus, discussing our dreams of becoming neurosurgeons. The way she'd challenge my diagnoses, pushing me to think deeper, work harder.

The memories felt like a physical ache, sharp and sudden. We'd been more than just classmates–we'd been equals, rivals, pushing each other to excel. I'd admired her brilliant mind, her unwavering determination, the way she refused to let anyone underestimate her because of her gender or heritage.

But that was before. Before the choices we'd made, the paths we'd chosen, the six years that now stood between us like an unbridgeable chasm.

Her full lips trembled slightly, but there was steel in her spine as she met my gaze. The tears didn't fall. They never did with her. Even back then, she'd had too much pride to let anyone see her cry.

This close, I could see the slight shadows under her eyes, artfully concealed but visible to someone who knew where to look. Long shifts at the hospital, no doubt. She'd achieved her dream of becoming a neurosurgeon, following the path we'd once discussed during long nights of study and stolen moments between rounds.

Her white coat was pristine, perfectly pressed–the armor of a doctor who knew she had to work twice as hard to be taken seriously. A far cry from the wrinkled scrubs she'd practically lived in during our residency days. The diamond studs in her ears were new, too. Small, tasteful–the kind of jewelry a successful physician might buy herself to celebrate a promotion.

"Finnegan," she whispered, and the sound of my name on her lips still held the power to affect me, even after all this time. "I... I thought..."

"That I was Mark? What about now? Disappointed?" I allowed a hint of mockery to color my tone. "Your skills of observation seem to have deteriorated since medical school, Ophelia. I would have expected better from you."

"Why... why do you know that?" she stuttered.

I didn’t respond and remained my coldness. And beneath the carefully cultivated coldness, I felt something dangerous stir–something I'd thought I'd buried along with the rest of our shared past.

Six years, and she still had the power to disturb my carefully ordered world with nothing more than her presence. That made her dangerous. That made her a liability.

That made her something I couldn't afford to want.

The skyline sparkled beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, a glittering backdrop to this unexpected reunion. But I wasn’t in a mood to admire that.

"Ophelia," I said, letting ice coat each word, forcing myself back to the present, away from dangerous memories, "six years later, and you're still so cheap."