Nerissa doesn’t look at her.
She can’t.
She knows that if she sees her tears again, she’ll end up reaching for her one more time.
And she’s too tired to keep surviving on half-measures.
When Seraphina closes the door behind her, Nerissa stands still in the middle of the room, taking in the aftermath of the disaster.
The physical evidence of something that never manages to exist in daylight.
She closes her eyes for a moment and realizes that, even broken, she still loves her with an intensity that is beginning to genuinely terrify her.
*
The days that follow become torture.
With the stress of yet another transition weighing on her, the clinics continue operating at their usual pace, oblivious to the earthquake shaking the two women walking their hallways.
Nerissa deliberately avoids any unnecessary conversation with Seraphina.
She calls her “Ms. Chapman” in meetings and doesn’t look at her any more than absolutely necessary.
And every time she feels Seraphina’s eyes on her, she responds with a coldness that, far from helping, only makes everything worse.
Because distance doesn’t diminish desire.
It sharpens it until it becomes almost painful.
On Thursday afternoon, they briefly cross paths in one of the private elevators on the executive floor.
Nerissa catches the unmistakable scent of Seraphina’s perfume while the silence fills with unbearable tension.
When the doors open on the sixth floor, Seraphina steps out without looking at her, but before disappearing, she murmurs:
“I haven’t stopped thinking about you for a single second.”
Nerissa spends the rest of the day operating with her hands tense around the instruments, struggling to stay focused.
On Friday night, she attends a cocktail party at the boutique hotel Hawthorne House, overflowing with money, small talk, and champagne glasses circulating endlessly.
Nerissa Ashcombe hates that kind of event.
She has always hated them.
But Helena Whitmore has decided—much to Nerissa’s misfortune—that keeping the “crown jewel” of the new sports medicine project in the spotlight is essential.
So there she is, dressed elegantly for the occasion.
“Dr. Ashcombe, congratulations on the sports performance center project,” says another investor with a practiced smile.
Another automatic smile follows, along with another handshake. Nerissa responds politely while her eyes sweep across the main hall almost instinctively, drawn by the magnetic pull of a woman with breathtaking curves and a gaze capable of freezing anyone.
Anyone but her.
Because what happens to Nerissa when she looks at her is very different from ice.
Seraphina Chapman is standing by the bar, talking to two financial executives. She’s wearing a black dress that accentuates her elegance. And she’s completely incapable of hiding the fact that she’s searching for her in the crowd as well.
