“I’ll still get it.”
“That’s not the point.”
I leaned back against the counter. “What’s the point, then?”
“The point,” she said carefully, “is that you’ve been working toward that recognition for years. And tonight, when it happened, you were somewhere else.”
The accusation wasn’t sharp. It was concerned. “I wasn’tjustsomewhere else,” I said quietly.
“I thought so.” She bumped her shoulder lightly against mine. “Just next time, if you’re going to disappear during a life milestone, at least give me a heads-up so I can stall.”
I laughed despite myself. “You’re unbelievable.”
“I can be resourceful.” She glanced at my reflection once more, eyes sharp. “You look different.”
“Different how?”
“Settled.” A pause. “Like you stopped fighting something.”
I didn’t answer and thank God… she didn’t need me to. “Go collect your award,” she said finally. “Before someone decides to give it to the runner-up out of spite.”
I rolled my eyes, smoothing my dress. “That’s not how that works.”
“Still.”
I reached for the door, then hesitated. “For what it’s worth,” I said without turning, “I didn’t plan it.”
She snorted softly. “You never do.”
Liza left the bathroom, giving me a moment alone with my thoughts.I had won.So many feelings bubbled up inside me as I stood there. I had won… and I’d missed it because of Desmond.
I wanted to be upset. To feel guilty and ashamed. And maybe a little part of me did; I had workedsohard to be in these spaces and these places.
But this thing with Desmond… reckless and stupid as it was and might sound, felt… just as big.
I stepped back into the hum of the gala, applause long faded, adrenaline still humming under my skin. Behind me, Liza called gently, “Hey An?” I stopped, turning slightly. “Just… you’ve worked so hard. Don’t throw it away for good dick.” She cringed a little, but there was an honesty in her face. “It’s not worth it.”
I didn’t look back. But I was smiling.
Chapter 23
Anya
Trauma Two hit the bay like a dropped tray of instruments — loud, sudden, impossible to ignore. Motorcycle versus guardrail. No helmet. Hypotensive, combative, bleeding from too many places at once — the type of injury that turned the room chaotic the second the gurney crossed the threshold. Voices layered over one another, hands moving on instinct, muscle memory snapping into place as if we’d all been wound too tight and finally released.
I was already gloved when Desmond stepped in.
He didn’t rush. He never did. He absorbed the chaos the way a seasoned swimmer reads a rip current — eyes sweeping the monitors, the patient, the floor already slick with blood — before his gaze found me and settled there.
It lingered half a second too long, long enough for my pulse to notice, long enough for something to tighten low in my chest. Sleeves rolled, posture easy, expression sharp and unreadable in that way that always made it feel like he knew exactly how this would end. “Alright,” he said, calm as a metronome. “Let’s work.”
I took the head of the bed without thinking, already focused. “Airway’s questionable,” I called out, leaning in as the patient thrashed weakly beneath the restraints.
Desmond drifted closer, hands clasped behind his back as if this were a lecture hall and not controlled chaos. “You want it?”
I glanced up at him, catching the glint in his eye that had nothing to do with medicine. “You offering to do it?”
One corner of his mouth kicked up. “Hell no, it should be clean.” A nurse snorted. Another suddenly found the far wall fascinating.
