“Careful,” he offers smoothly. “Champagne at these things tends to disappear faster than good conversation.”
I take another sip before answering, letting the bubbles sting my tongue. “I just spent twenty minutes discussing donor engagement metrics with a cardiologist who thinks trauma surgeons only work on Tuesdays. This is already the highlight of my evening.”
He laughs lightly, leaning in. “Then perhaps I arrived at the perfect time. I specialize in rescuing beautiful women from tedious conversations.”
Lila makes a strangled sound into her glass.
I tilt my head, studying him politely. “If I ever need rescuing,” I reply, “it means several alarms have gone off and at least three people are already running.”
Lila lets out a sharp laugh beside me and raises her glass. “That’s his cue.”
The man offers a quick, embarrassed smile before retreating, suddenly very interested in the bar.
Lila grins at me. “That man is going to rethink every life choice.”
“I try to be efficient,” I murmur, taking another sip.
The moment barely has time to solidify before a woman with a clipboard appears at my elbow, all purpose and polite urgency. She murmurs my name, already angling her body toward theside corridor, and Lila gives my arm a quick squeeze before letting me go.
The noise of the ballroom fades as we slip through a narrow door, the heavy curtain swallowing laughter, music, and clinking glasses until only a muted hum remains. The cooler backstage air replaces champagne and perfume, and my focus locks in as completely as it does before stepping into an operating room. I stand near the edge of the curtain, my note cards aligned into a perfect stack in my hands, the edges squared.
The stage lights glow just beyond the curtain, warm against my skin even from here. I smooth a hand down the front of my dress, my fingertips brushing the fabric once before falling back to my side. I check the microphone clip again, adjusting it by millimeters even though I know it's already secure.
I inhale slowly, filling my lungs with air, then release it just as slowly. Somewhere between that breath and the next, a low, continuous sound slips out of me. A hum. It's unconscious, the same tune I've been humming since medical school, whenever my nerves spike. I don't even realize I'm doing it until Lila sidles up beside me with a champagne flute she has no intention of drinking, tilts her head, and smirks.
“You're humming,” she murmurs, leaning closer so her voice doesn't carry.
I stop mid-note, blinking at her. “I am not.”
“You absolutely are,” she counters, her grin widening. “That'syour ‘I'm about to perform surgery in front of a room full of people’ hum.”
I exhale through my nose, heat creeping into my cheeks, and press my lips together like that might trap the sound inside. “I don't hum.”
Lila's smile widens further, her warm brown eyes crinkling at the corners. “You hum. You always have. You did it during anatomy finals. You did it before your boards. And you're doing it now.”
I open my mouth to argue, insist that she's mistaken, that I would never make such an unprofessional sound in public, but the event coordinator steps forward before I can form the words.
“Dr. Hale,” she calls softly, her clipboard pressed to her chest. “You're on in thirty seconds.”
I lift my chin, straighten my shoulders, and take one last breath. The nervousness doesn't disappear, but it eases into a manageable current beneath my skin.
Lila squeezes my hand briefly, her touch warm and reassuring. “Go be brilliant,” she whispers.
I nod once, then step forward. The curtain parts. The lights rise, bright and blinding for a moment before my eyes adjust. And I walk onto the stage.
2
KIREN
I stand at the back of the ballroom, where the lighting softens faces, and the exits stay within my peripheral vision. Crystal chandeliers glow overhead, their reflections scattering across polished marble floors and the glass walls that rise toward the winter-dark skyline beyond.
Three weeks have passed since the alley. Three weeks since my blood soaked into the frozen concrete, and Bratva surgeons stitched me back together. The wound beneath my tailored suit is closed but far from healed, the stitches pulling when I inhale too deeply, my body trailing behind the demands placed on it. I tolerate it, knowing pain is manageable while absence isn’t. Tonight isn’t optional. Visibility matters now more than comfort ever could.
The room moves with quiet wealth and an air of civility honed for display. Donors cluster in groups that rearrange subtly as names pass through conversations. Board members smile toowidely as they scan the room for relevance. Laughter rises and falls on cue, smooth and rehearsed, never quite reaching the eyes. I catalog movement without appearing to, noting the men who linger near the walls too long, the ones who track reflections instead of faces, and the ones who pretend to admire art while mapping the room.
Mikel remains close without hovering, placed where his presence is felt without ever standing beside me in public. He positions himself near the edge of the crowd, far enough not to draw attention, near enough that I sense him like a second spine aligned with my own. His dark eyes sweep the room, missing nothing. His dark blonde hair falls across his forehead in a way that makes him appear less threatening than he is. His broad shoulders fill out the black suit he wears with the same ease he fills tactical gear.
Mikel entered the Sovarin Bratva the way most men like him do, young enough to be shaped and old enough to understand that loyalty is the only currency that survives. His father was killed during a bratva territorial conflict in Moscow when Mikel was a teenager. The death left him with no illusions about honor or legacy, only a clear-eyed understanding of what it takes to endure.
