The door opens behind me, and I catch his reflection in the mirror before I turn. He’s in his tux, looking every inch the man the hospital adores, the one I love, confident and polished.
His eyes find me.
“Jayne,” he murmurs, almost like he’s forgotten how to speak. “You look…beautiful.”
It’s been so long since he’s said something like this to me. So long that I can’t remember the last time he did. He used to say it all the time. I used to laugh and warn him not to forget how lucky he was to have me.
But those easy days are in the past, just like his compliments. This one, though genuine, feels distant somehow, a consolation prize.
I meet his gaze in the mirror. “Thank you.”
He takes a step closer, eyes lingering, not in a distant, distracted way he’s been doing lately, but like he’s seeingme.
The air changes between us. It’s unexpectedly charged with an emotion that is old and familiar.
Lust. And love.
“You should wear red more often. You look incredible in it.”
A faint smile tugs at the corner of his mouth as he holds out his hand. My heart stumbles. For a second, we’re back in time. It’s twenty years ago, and we’re in our too-small apartment, dancing in the kitchen while pasta boils over on the stove. I can almost feel his hand at my waist, hear his low laugh against my ear.
I want that back so badly.
I lay my hand on his.
He twirls me.
I giggle.
“I don’t tell you that enough.” His eyes are soft, loving, warm. “You’re…amazing, Jayne.”
I am?
“You say that to all the girls, I’m sure,” I tease.
He lets out a quiet laugh. “Got me! I do say it to only two girls in my life—and both my wife and daughter are astonishing.”
I want to believe him. I want to lean into the warmth of it, forget the fights, the distance, the silence. I want to let this be enough, even though I know that words are easy and he’s good at them. After all, so many of his patients and colleagues say to me, “Dr. Prescott has an excellent bedside manner.”
“Shall we?” He offers his arm, a gesture so charming that I let mydoubts drop.
I chuckle softly and slip my hand through his elbow.
As we head out the door, after saying goodnight to the kids, I catch our reflection in the hallway mirror. We look like the perfect couple. From the outside, you’d never know how carefully we’re holding the seams together.
CHAPTER 6
Rhys
After averysilent Uber ride, we reach the George Peabody Library, which never fails to impress.
Six tiers of cast-iron balconies rise around the ballroom, stacked with old leather-bound volumes that glow under the golden light of chandeliers.
The Annual Camden Memorial Gala is the event of the year, when we all leave our scrubs behind to schmooze with donors, one another, and the Baltimore elite—it’s where medicine meets money, and…we all pretend we’re not exhausted.
I’m proud to have Jayne on my arm. She’s wearing a dress I once told her was “a little too much,” but it suits her—so much so that heads turn as we pass, and I catch at least two of my colleagues pausing mid-conversation to watch her.
I can’t blame them. I’m also having trouble looking away from her.
