“It was beautiful. ‘Corporate Psychiatry.’ We could bill that at a premium. Do you have any idea how many narcissists in this city need to be tricked into staying alive?”
“I was just speaking his language,” I say, a strange warmth blooming in my chest.
“No, no,” Welling insists, gripping my shoulder tighter. “You’re a natural. You’re a Sociopath Whisperer. I haven't seen talent like that since I did a consult at the UN.”
He leans in.
“Forget Surgery, Preston. Forget Trauma. You belong with us. In the murky, grey waters of the human psyche.”
I look at my hands. They are clean. No blood. No betadine. No cracking bones. Just ink and influence.
I look back at the chaos of the ICU—the alarms, the fluids, the mess. Then I look at Welling, calm in his tweed jacket.
“You know,” I say slowly, a grin spreading across my face. “Ithink you might be right. I didn't have to touch a single fluid. It was… hygienic.”
Welling winks.
“Welcome to the dark side, Dr. York. We have cookies. And we charge by the hour.”
He walks away, whistling a cheerful tune, already typing notes into his phone about ‘Structural Renovation.’
I watch him go. I feel lighter. I feel seen.
“I think I found my people, Max,” I whisper.
Max looks at me, then at the closed door of the psychopath I just manipulated.
“God help us all,” Max says.
I find Luke in the cafeteria an hour later. He’s eating a salad that looks sad, surrounded by charts.
I slide into the seat across from him.
“I just saved a billionaire’s life by convincing him that dying was bad for his brand,” I announce.
Luke looks up. He smiles, and it’s the real one—the one that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners.
“Good day in the Psych ward?”
“Excellent day. Max actually complimented me. I think he might have been hallucinating, but I’ll take it.”
I reach across the table and steal a crouton from his salad.
“Also,” I say, lowering my voice. “I was thinking.”
“Dangerous,” Luke murmurs.
“About the fruit basket. And the empanadas. And the fact that my brother and your mother have seemingly formed a non-aggression pact.”
“Mmm?”
“I have a gala coming up,” I say casually. “The St. Jude’sFoundation Spring Gala. Next Saturday. It’s black tie. It’s boring. It’s mandatory for the Yorks.”
Luke stops chewing. He puts his fork down.
“Are you asking me to a gala, Preston?”
“I am asking you to be my plus-one. In a tuxedo. To stand next to me while Alistair tries to pretend he isn't terrified of you.” I lean forward. “And then we can leave early and go back to Queens and use the espresso machine.”
