Hospitals smell like bleach and fear. I should hate it here. Maybe I do. But hate is what gets me out of bed now.
Pulling strings wasn't hard. People remember a name like mine when you throw enough money at their pet projects.
The Aurelin Trust has funded half the city's children's wings.
All I had to do was suggest the board "might" like to donate to the hospital Valerius resided in, and suddenly I had a badge and an ID photo that makes me look far calmer than I feel.
I'm not calm.
I shadow nurses through hallways so white they almost glow, memorizing every turn until the place feels like a map I'm burning into my brain.
Each patient room I pass smells faintly of antiseptic, humming with machines. I catch myself counting heartbeats.
And then I see him.
Dr. Damian Valerius.
He's exactly as I remember, and somehow worse. That smile is still there pulling trust from strangers like a magician pulling scarves from a hat.
He stands with a group of interns, explaining something about a chart. He's relaxed, easy, like the years he stole from me never even brushed against his perfect white coat.
I step into his line of sight before I can think better of it.
"Dr. Valerius," I say, my voice calm but my blood boiling.
His head turns. For half a second, something flickers across his face, hesitation, recognition, maybe guilt but it vanishes so fast I almost doubt it was there.
"Celeste Aurelin," I say, offering my hand. "It's been a long time."
He takes my hand without missing a beat. His grip is steady. "Ms. Aurelin. Welcome. I hear you'll be shadowing us for a few weeks?"
Like we're strangers.
Like he didn't deliver my son, pronounce him dead, and disappear.
I smile back. "Yes. I like to stay… hands-on with my investments."
Our eyes lock for a moment too long, but then he turns back to his chart, dismissing me as if I'm no more important than the clipboard in his hands.
That's when I decided I could get rid of him.
It wouldn't be hard. Not here. Not with the access badge burning against my chest.
There are poisons no one would ever trace back to me. Clean, clinical, and elegant.
At lunch, I find myself sitting in the cafeteria with a vial hidden in my palm. My fingers curl around it so tightly, I can feel the glass almost break.
He's at the next table over, laughing at something one of the nurses said. The sound makes my throat ache.
I could do it. Right now. I could pour it into his coffee and watch the life drain from those smug gray eyes.
And then someone grabs my wrist.
The vial vanishes from my hand so fast I barely see it move.
I spin, ready to fight, and find myself staring into dark eyes under sharp brows.
Dr. Michael Grimm. The youngest chief surgeon this hospital's ever seen. Hands steady enough to stitch back a heart.
Right now, those hands are wrapped around my wrist like steel.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" he says, voice low but not unkind.
"Give it back," I hissed.
"Not until you tell me what it was." His tone doesn't rise, but it cuts deeper than shouting would have.
My pulse hammers against his fingers. "Do you work for him?"
His brows knit. "Who?"
"Valerius." I spit the name like poison.
Something unreadable flashes across his face. "I work for the hospital," he says flatly. "And right now I'm trying to decide if I need to call security."
"You don't understand." My voice breaks, but I don't look away. "You don't know what he did."
"Then tell me."
For a second, I can't breathe. I want to scream.
I want to tell him about Orion, about Leo, about the night that hollowed me out. But the cafeteria is full of witnesses, and I can feel Valerius somewhere behind me, watching, smiling, winning.
Michael releases my wrist slowly, like he's handling a cornered animal.
"You really think poisoning him in the middle of a cafeteria was going to solve anything?" he asks quietly.
"Yes," I say. And I almost mean it.
His jaw tightens. He looks at me for a long moment, then shakes his head like he's seeing somet
hing he wishes he hadn't.
"This isn't over," he says finally.
"No," I agree. "It's not."