I hate blood. I hate sick people. And Maxwell is right—I really, really love my sleep.
But I love the idea of bankrupting my father and future brother-in-law even more.
I start the engine. It roars to life.
Let the games begin.
Chapter 2
The Spite Prescription
PRESTON
Three Years Later
St. Jude’s Medical Centre. New York City. 6:45 AM.
They say that spite is not a sustainable fuel source. They say it burns hot and fast, like magnesium, and eventually leaves you cold, dark, and empty.
Those people have clearly never met a York. I have been running on premium, high-octane spite for four years.
I graduated college at nineteen. I finished medical school at twenty-three. While other people my age are currently backpacking through Europe or figuring out how to use a microwave, I am about to be responsible for human lives.
I pull Alistair’s vintage Porsche 911 into the parking garage. The engine purrs—a throaty, expensive sound that echoes off the concrete walls like a challenge. I park nextto a Honda Civic that is held together by duct tape, rust, and prayer.
I check my reflection in the rearview mirror. My hair is perfect—styled with a texturizing paste that costs more than a flight to Europe. My scrubs are navy blue, 400-thread count Egyptian cotton, and custom-tailored to fit my shoulders. I look fantastic. I look like I own the place.
Technically, my father’s foundationdoesown a significant wing of the place, specifically the West Wing, but I’m not going to mention that. Not today.
Today is Day One of residency. Today is the day I prove Maxwell wrong.
I step out of the car. My Gucci loafers hit the oil-stained concrete. Maxwell warned me about the shoes. He said I need "arch support." He said I need "fluid resistance."
I said I need to maintain a shred of my dignity in a place where people wear plastic crocs voluntarily.
I grab my stethoscope—a sleek, matte-black Littmann Master Cardiology edition—and head for the elevator.
The doors slide open to reveal a crowded metal box smelling of stale coffee, rubbing alcohol, and fear. The other interns are easy to spot. They’re the ones vibrating. They clutch their clipboards like shields. They look pale, clammy, and distinctly middle-class.
I step in. "Good morning," I say, flashing my best gala smile.
A girl with frizzy hair and a suspicious brown stain on her scrub top stares at me. "You smell like sandalwood," she whispers, sounding accusatory. "Why do you smell like sandalwood? I smell like anxiety and ham."
"It’s a custom blend," I say, pressing the button for the fourth floor. "Breathing it in costs five dollars. I’ll bill you."
She blinks. The elevator chimes.
Fourth Floor. General Surgery.
The doors open, and chaos hits us like a physical wave.
Alarms are beeping. Phones are ringing. People are running. It is loud, bright, and smells faintly of bleach and something organic that has gone wrong.
"Welcome to the meat grinder, fresh meat!" a voice booms.
Standing at the nurses' station is a man who looks like he personally fought a bear and lost, but refuses to admit it. He has dark, messy curls that defy gravity, broad shoulders that fill out his scrubs, and eyes that are so dark they look like double shots of espresso.
This is Dr. Lucas Silva. Chief Resident.
