Chapter 5

Ophelia’s POV

Oh. My. God.

That was literally the only thought my brain could process as sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, forcing me to face the reality of what had happened last night. My whole body ached in ways that had nothing to do with hospital rounds, and everything to do with the incredibly stupid, amazingly mind-blowing mistake I had made.

I turned my head slowly, already knowing what—or rather who—I wouldn't find beside me. The pristine white sheets on the other side of the king-sized bed were perfectly smooth, as if no one had ever been there. But the ghost of his touch lingered on my skin, refusing to let me pretend it had all been a dream.

My phone buzzed for what felt like the millionth time, and I groaned when I saw Lisa's name on the screen. Here we go.

"Where have you been?" she practically shrieked into my ear. "I've been calling all night! I was about to file a missing persons report!"

"I'm fine," I croaked, my voice still rough from... activities that I was definitely not thinking about right now. "Just needed some time..."

"After what happened with Mark? God, I still can't believe it. That woman had to be at least fifteen years older than him." She paused, and I could practically see her running her hand through her hair, a nervous habit from our childhood days.

"Forget it. Screw Mark and his cougar drama," Lisa then said, and I could practically see her waving her hand dismissively. "Where are you anyway? Don't tell me you spend the night crying in your car again."

I glanced around the ridiculously luxurious hotel suite, taking in details I'd been too... distracted to notice last night and feeling a hysterical laugh bubble up in my chest. "Not... exactly."

"Ophelia Clarke, spill it right now."

Knowing that I couldn't hide anything from Lisa, I told her the truth.

"Well, actually I may have accidentally ended up in the wrong hotel room," I said, biting my lip. "And I may have accidentally run into someone we both know."

There was a pause, and then: "No way. NO. WAY. Don’t tell me you two—"

"It's not what you think," I lied, even as my eyes drifted to the bathroom door where, mere hours ago, Finnegan had pressed me against the marble wall, his lips tracing patterns down my neck. "We just talked."

"Really? I bet it’s more than that." She prolonged her tune. The skepticism in her voice could have filled the Pacific Ocean. I felt my face burn with embarrassment instantly.

"No, I can explain!" I protested, even as memories of Finnegan's hands, his mouth, his... everything flashed through my mind. "There was a mix-up with the room numbers, and then he was just there. We met and we talked, and that’s all."

I closed my eyes, remembering how different Finnegan had looked in his perfectly tailored suit compared to the casual Stanford med student I'd known. The same sharp intelligence in his eyes, but now weighted with something darker, more powerful. "Anyway, it's complicated."

"Your entire life is complicated," Lisa sighed. "Does he know about Ivy?"

My daughter's name hit me like a bucket of ice water. Sweet, precocious Ivy, who had her father's analytical mind and questioning gaze, even if he didn't know it. Who was probably wondering why James, my another friend, had dropped her off at school today instead of me.

"No," I whispered. "And he can't know. Ever."

That night six years ago had been a mistake born of too much wine and too many unspoken feelings. The pregnancy that followed, a secret I'd carried alone while watching Finnegan's meteoric rise in both the medical and business worlds from afar.

With that, my eyes landed on the bedside table, where three items sat in precise arrangement: an unopened Plan B pill, a bottle of mineral water, and... oh god, was that a stack of hundred-dollar bills?

"I have to go," I told Lisa, my eyes fixed on the money. "I'll call you later."

"Don't you dare hang up on—"

I ended the call, slowly walking over to the bedside table. The stack of bills was thick enough to cover two months' rent at my apartment. My first instinct was to leave it there—I wasn't some woman he could just throw money at.

Still, as I gathered my clothes and prepared to leave, I found myself pocketing the stack of bills. Not because I needed them—my pride wouldn't allow that—but because someday, I'd pay him back. With interest.

It was a debt, I told myself. Just another entry in the long list of things I owed him, right up there with the truth about our daughter and six years of silence.

Someday, I would pay him back. All of it.

But for now, I slipped the money into my purse, trying to ignore how last night felt less like closure and more like a door creaking open, leading down a path I wasn't sure I was ready to walk again.

Then I turned away, straightened my shoulders, and headed for the door. After all, I had surgeries to prepare for, a daughter to raise, and a life to live.

As for Finnegan, I didn’t want to give him a dame think now.