“Nerissa, please, stop minimizing this.”
The surgeon stands and watches her with her arms crossed.
“The thing is, you turn every little detail into the end of the world because you’re terrified of losing your perfect facade.”
Seraphina stands motionless, her throat burning.
“That’s not fair.”
“No?” Nerissa takes a step toward her. “Because I’m pretty sure you spent the entire weekend obsessing over the fact that some guy—who, by the way, is a complete asshole—threw out a couple of metaphors in front of your husband. You know what amazes me? How quickly you panic the moment you think your perfect bubble might burst.”
The tension is thick enough to cut with a knife.
“I don’t need you to judge me,” Seraphina murmurs, with no intention of arguing.
Because Seraphina Chapman knows all too well how those arguments always end.
Nerissa holds her gaze. For a fleeting second, something more vulnerable peeks through the coldness she’s projecting: exhaustion, pain... and in that moment, Seraphina knows exactly what she means.
“What you need... is to finally decide what the hell you want.”
A knock on the door interrupts the moment. Both women instinctively step back, their expressions changing just as Daphne Mercer enters the room.
“Sorry,” Daphne says, looking first at Nerissa and then at Seraphina. “Helena wants to review the transition budgets before the executive lunch.”
Seraphina immediately puts her mask back on, even though her heart is racing.
“Of course.”
Daphne hands her the folder, though the easy familiarity between her and Nerissa is impossible to miss.
“I’ve also reorganized the surgical department’s budget items,” she explains as she approaches the table. “Nerissa insisted on keeping the biomechanical recovery budget intact.”
“Because cutting it would be stupid and incredibly detrimental to future patients,” the surgeon replies without taking her eyes off Seraphina, her tone carrying more than one layer of meaning.
Daphne smiles, like someone accustomed to those mood swings.
That small detail triggers an immediate discomfort in Seraphina, a twinge that pierces her chest.
But at that moment, she isn’t in the mood to dwell on it.
Two hours later, the executive dining room is bustling during the Mercer & Associates lunch. Seraphina sits at one end of the long table, reviewing various documents while trying to ignore what’s happening several seats away.
But she fails miserably.
As if what she saw in the lab hadn’t been enough, watching Daphne and Nerissa work together is devastating. The knowing glances, the way Daphne absentmindedly offers Nerissa something to eat before she even asks. The body language between the two women... Seraphina should focus on work.
But the truth is, she can’t.
“It seems to me you still have the bad habit of not eating when you’re stressed,” Daphne remarks to Nerissa.
Several executives smile automatically at the familiarity.
Daphne brushes a dark strand of hair from Nerissa’s forehead with a gesture that is completely natural, intimate, and devastating.
“Come on, have some,” she insists, offering her plate. “I know you, and you’re going to end up with a migraine if you don’t eat something.”
“Wasn’t their relationship supposed to have ended badly?”
