Sara's grin softened into something gentler. "Maybe. But last night rattled you. More than you're admitting. And it's okay if it did. That girl got under your skin. Literally and figuratively."
Rowan set the pen down with deliberate care. "I'm not rattled. I'm annoyed. She's a walking red flag with a trust fund. Nothing more."
Emma reached over, flicked the end of Rowan's bun playfully. "Then why are your cheeks pink again just talking about her? Hmm?"
Rowan swatted her hand away, but the motion lacked real heat. "Because you two won't shut up about it."
Sara laughed—soft, warm—and leaned back. "Fine. Diversion time. Tell us about the new trauma fellow who keeps staring at you during hand-off. The one with the dimples and the terrible taste in ties. He asked about you yesterday. Again."
Emma jumped in immediately. "Yes! Distraction accepted. Spill. Did he finally ask you out or is he still doing that awkward 'I'll just stand here and stare until you notice me' thing?"
Rowan exhaled—half laugh, half sigh—and let her shoulders drop a fraction. "He asked if I wanted coffee. I said I prefer tea. He looked like I'd kicked his puppy."
Sara cackled. "Classic. Keep shooting him down. Builds character."
Emma nodded sagely. "And keeps your mind off certain blazer-wearing disasters who probably won't darken these doors again anyway. She's got yachts and private jets. Why would she sit in a fluorescent-lit consult room talking about her feelings?"
Rowan stared at the chart in front of her—unseeing—for a long second.
"Yeah," she said quietly. "Why would she."
They didn't notice the way her thumb traced the edge of the page once—slow, almost unconscious.
They didn't notice the faint tremor in her exhale.
They thought Isadora Ravencroft was gone.
A spoiled footnote.
A one-night spectacle.
They had no idea she was already dressed for battle—brown blazer sharp, watch glinting, guards at her back—heading straight for the hospital doors.
And when she walked through them in less than an hour?
Rowan would have to face her.
Daily.
Unavoidable.
And the "distraction" Sara and Emma were trying so hard to provide would shatter the second those dark eyes locked on hers again.
But for now—in the lounge, with coffee and teasing and forced normalcy—Rowan let them believe she was over it.
She even managed a small, tired smile.
The black Escalade cut through Midtown traffic like a blade—tinted windows up, partition raised between Isadora and the driver, Grayson riding shotgun up front in silence. She sat alone in the back, legs crossed, brown blazer unbuttoned just enough to let the crisp shirt breathe. The city blurred past in streaks of gray steel and yellow cabs, but Isadora wasn't seeing any of it.
Her mind was already at Bellevue.
Rowan Blackwood.
Those full lips parting in shock last night. The way her big hazel eyes had widened under thick lashes when Isadora dipped her—deep, possessive—throat exposed, pulse hammering against Isadora's thumb. The heat of Rowan's body pressed flush against hers during that final turn, breasts soft against Isadora's chest, hips brushing in a rhythm that had nothing to do with the music. The faint tremor in Rowan's thighs when Isadora whispered filth in her ear. The way Rowan hadn't pushed away fast enough. Hadn't said no. Hadn't screamed for security.
Isadora's fingers flexed against the leather seat, nails digging in. She could still feel the silk of Rowan's dress under her palm, the dip of her waist, the way her breath had hitched when Isadora's thumb traced lower, teasing the curve of her ass through fabric. She wanted to do it again—harder.
The thought made Isadora shift in her seat.
Her phone buzzed twice in quick succession.
She glanced down.
Lexi:
How's the ride, princess? Already wet thinking about your ice queen? Bet you're picturing her bent over a gurney right now.
Jade:
Lmao she's definitely hard as fuck in the back seat.
Tell us—scale of 1-10 how bad do you wanna eat her out in her own office while she's trying to take "professional notes"?
Isadora's lips curved—slow, dangerous.
She typed back one-handed, thumb flying.
Isadora:
11.
I'm thinking about pinning her to the wall in her consult room. She glares at me with those big wet eyes and pretends she still hates me.
She hit send.
A three-second pause.
Lexi:
Jesus Christ Dora.
I need a cigarette after that.
Jade:
You're gonna get sectioned before lunch if you walk in looking like you're about to devour her soul.
Wear the watch. Flash it when you shake her hand. Remind her who's paying for the lights in that place.
Isadora:
Already wearing it.
And when she sees me in her doorway—formal, sober, waiting for my session—she'll know exactly why I'm there.
Not for help.
For her.
Lexi:
You're terrifying.
I love it.
Jade:
Go get your doctor, baby.
We'll be waiting for the play-by-play.
Isadora powered the screen off.
The Escalade slowed at a light.
She stared out the tinted window—city crawling past, indifferent.
Her reflection stared back: blazer sharp, eyes dark, mouth curved in that same predatory smile.
Bellevue loomed ahead—gray, clinical, funded by Ravencroft money.
Rowan was inside.
Waiting.
Hating her.
Wanting her.
And Isadora Ravencroft was already planning how to make the doctor break—slowly, beautifully, irrevocably—before the week was out.
The light turned green.
The car rolled forward.
And Isadora leaned back, legs crossed, pulse steady and hungry.
Game on.
The nurses' station on the fifth-floor addiction-medicine wing was quiet at 8:55 a.m.—just the soft beep of monitors down the hall, the rustle of charts, and Sara and Emma bent over their shared workstation, heads together, murmuring about overdue incident reports.
Sara tapped her pen against the screen. "This one from last night—guy in bay twelve tried to leave AMA after Narcan. We need to document the restraint time exactly or admin's gonna—"
Emma cut her off mid-sentence, eyes flicking toward the corridor entrance.
"Oh shit."
Sara followed her gaze.
Isadora Ravencroft walked through the double doors like she owned the hallway.
Brown blazer sharp as a blade, black shirt crisp beneath it, brown trousers tailored to perfection, gold watch catching the fluorescent light with every measured step. Hair pulled into a sleek low ponytail that still managed to look defiant. Two black-suited security operatives flanked her—one on each side, earpieces glinting, faces blank—keeping perfect pace without crowding her. She moved with the same predatory grace she'd had on the dance floor last night, but now it was contained, formal, weaponized.
Sara's pen froze mid-air.
Emma's mouth dropped open a fraction before she snapped it shut.
Isadora's eyes scanned the station once—quick, deliberate—then landed on them. A small, knowing smile curved her lips. She lifted her hand in a casual wave—two fingers, almost playful, the gold watch flashing again.
Sara went stiff. Emma went stiffer.
Neither waved back.
They stood frozen—Sara gripping the edge of the counter like it might save her, Emma's protein bar halfway to her mouth and forgotten.
Isadora didn't stop. She continued down the corridor toward the consult rooms, guards matching her stride, oxfords clicking softly on linoleum. The wave had been deliberate—acknowledgment, taunt, promise—all at once.
Sara exhaled shakily once Isadora disappeared around the corner.
"Did she just… wave at us?" she whispered.
Emma nodded slowly, still staring at the empty doorway. "Like we're old friends. Or like she knows we know what she did to Ro last night."
Sara rubbed her face with both hands. "We thought she'd never come back. We literally said it this morning. 'Rich kids don't do follow-through.' And now she's here. With security. Dressed like she's about to close a merger or fuck someone in an on-call room."
Emma swallowed. "She's going to Rowan's office. Right now. For her first session."
They exchanged a look—wide-eyed, horrified, a little awed.
Sara's voice dropped to a hiss. "We cannot tell Ro yet. She's already trying to pretend last night didn't happen. If she sees that girl walk in like she owns the place—"
Emma finished for her. "—she'll lose it. Or worse. She'll freeze. And that brat will eat it up."
Down the hall, Rowan sat in her consult room—door half-open, chart open on her desk, pen in hand, posture perfect. Oblivious. Still convincing herself the dance, the whisper, the almost-kiss had been a one-off nightmare she could box up and file away.
She didn't hear the oxfords approaching.
Didn't see the security shadows pause outside her door.
Didn't know the girl who'd haunted her sleep last night was already here—formal, sober, ready.
Waiting.
Sara and Emma moved like they'd rehearsed it—fast, synchronized, stepping out from behind the nurses' station the second Isadora rounded the final corner toward Rowan's consult room door. They planted themselves directly in her path, arms crossed, expressions a mix of professional firmness and barely concealed panic.
Isadora stopped mid-stride, oxfords silent on linoleum. The two security guards halted a pace behind her, hands clasped in front, faces impassive.
Sara spoke first—voice low but sharp, the tone she used for non-compliant patients who thought rules didn't apply.
"You need an appointment first," she said, eyes flicking from Isadora's face to the guards and back. "This isn't a walk-in clinic. Dr. Blackwood's schedule is booked. You can't just—"
Emma jumped in, chin lifted, trying to match Sara's authority.
"—show up unannounced. Even with… escort." She glanced at the guards like they were unexploded ordnance. "Hospital policy. Paperwork. Intake. You know—normal things."
Isadora tilted her head—just slightly—studying them like interesting specimens. Then her lips curved into that slow, dangerous smirk, the same one she'd worn on the dance floor last night when she'd felt Rowan tremble.
"Appointment," she repeated softly, almost amused. "How quaint."
Before Sara could fire back, Grayson—the taller guard—stepped forward half a pace, voice flat and final.
"She doesn't need an appointment," he said. "Mr. Everett arranged it. Direct approval. Full access. Daily sessions. No exceptions."
Sara's eyes widened. Emma's mouth opened, then closed again.
Isadora lifted one hand—casual, almost gentle—stopping Grayson before he could say more.
"It's okay," she said quietly, gaze still locked on Sara and Emma. The words were polite, but the tone carried steel wrapped in velvet. "They're just doing their jobs. Protecting their doctor."
She took one measured step closer—close enough that Sara and Emma instinctively stiffened, backs pressing against the station counter.
Isadora's smirk softened—just a fraction—into something almost… appreciative.
"I get it," she murmured. "You're loyal. You saw what happened last night. You're scared she'll get hurt. Or worse—compromised." Her eyes flicked between them. "You're good friends. I respect that."
Sara swallowed. "Then respect boundaries. She doesn't want—"
"She doesn't know what she wants yet," Isadora cut in, voice dropping so low only the three of them could hear. "But she'll figure it out. One session at a time."
Emma found her voice—shaky but defiant. "You can't just barge in and—"
"I'm not barging," Isadora said calmly. "I'm expected. Scheduled. Funded." She lifted her wrist slightly—the gold watch catching light. "Same money that pays for these lights, those charts, her salary. I'm here to do what I promised. Therapy. Recovery. All of it."
She paused, letting that sink in.
Then softer—almost gentle:
"But if either of you ever think she's in real danger? From me? From anyone? Tell her. Tell security. Tell whoever. I won't stop you."
Sara's jaw worked. Emma's fingers gripped the counter edge until her knuckles whitened.
Isadora gave them one last look—long, unblinking—then stepped sideways, around them, toward Rowan's half-open door.
The guards followed without a word.
Sara and Emma stayed rooted—breathing hard, eyes wide, mouths finally silent.
Inside the consult room, Rowan sat at her desk—chart open, pen in hand, oblivious—still trying to convince herself last night was already fading into memory.
The door opened wider.
Isadora stepped through.
Formal. Sober. Smirking just enough.
And the air in the room changed instantly.
Sara whispered to Emma—barely audible:
"She's really doing this."
Emma nodded once.
"God help Rowan."
The door clicked shut behind Isadora and her guards.
And the first session began.