TRACY
The walk back to my building from Shelby's apartment was a blur of cold winter air and silence. The city seemed hollowed out at three in the morning; it was lifeless, dark, and unaffected by the storm inside my chest. The smell of his sandalwood clung to the fibers of my coat like a brand as I walked quickly, my breath catching in the cold air.
I felt vulnerable. The "Ice Queen" had been broken down, not just melted.
There was a mocking, rhythmic reminder with every step on the pavement: You let him in. You made yourself visible to him. It was given away by you. The memory of his touch still made my skin vibrate, but the warmth was quickly giving way to a dull, cold weight in my stomach. I was Tracy Williams, the student who finished first in her class and had a one-year plan to master neurology and go on. I wasn't meant to be the girl running like a thief out of a chief of staff's bedroom in the middle of the night.
When I finally reached my room, the difference was obvious. The single bed with its scratchy, thin sheets looked even more pathetic than it had before. The stack of textbooks on the desk felt like a pile of broken promises. I stripped off my clothes, throwing them into a heap in the corner as if they were contaminated, and climbed into bed. But sleep was a ghost.
I stared at the ceiling as my mind painfully replayed the previous evening. The manner in which he referred to me as "his lady." The street carnival's heat. The way he unzipped my dress and looked at me. With a startling realization, I realized that I regretted more than just the sex—I regretted the sensation. I had felt seen for several hours. I had been treasured. My emotions were a liability I couldn't afford at a facility like Larissa Specialist Hospital.
What would happen at 7:00 AM? How was I supposed to stand in the ward and present patient cases to a man who had seen me naked? How could I command respect from the nurses who already whispered about my "Ice Queen" attitude when they saw the way he looked at me?
The "Godfather" favor felt like a ticking time bomb now. If anyone found out I was sleeping with the chief of staff, my merit wouldn't matter. My grades wouldn't matter. I'd be just another resident who slept her way to the top.
By 7:00 AM, the hospital felt like a completely different beast. The quiet, sterile halls I had grown used to during the holiday break were gone, replaced by a rush of high-octane energy. The senior residents and consultants who had been away for Thanksgiving were back in full force, their loud voices and authoritative steps filling the corridors. Every elevator was packed, and the "Ice Queen" felt more like a ghost haunted by her own secrets than a top-of-the-class resident.
I kept my head down, my clipboard clutched to my chest like a wooden shield. Every time a pair of polished oxfords clicked behind me, my heart leapt into my throat, fearing it was him. I threw myself into my work with a desperate, manic focus. I pre-rounded twelve patients before the sun was even fully up, burying my face in charts and lab results so I wouldn't have to look anyone in the eye.
Strangely, the morning passed in a blur of silence. Shelby was nowhere to be seen. I checked the surgery board—he was in the theater for a complex craniotomy. Part of me felt a wave of relief so strong it made my knees weak; another part of me felt a sharp, stinging jab of rejection. How could he just... work? After the way he had held me at 2:00 AM, how could he step into a sterile room and cut into someone's brain as if the world hadn't shifted on its axis?
My luck held until noon. I was standing at the nursing station, scribbling orders for a post-op patient, when my phone buzzed in my pocket. My hand shook as I pulled it out.
Shelby: Your lunch is in my office. Come and get it before it gets cold, Tracy.
No "Good morning." No "Are you okay?" Just a command. I stared at the screen, my thumb perched over the delete button. I had promised myself I was done. I had spent the last four hours convincing myself that what happened was a fever dream, a mistake in judgment brought on by red wine and homesickness. But as I smelled the faint hospital coffee and looked at the vending machine crackers I had planned to eat, I felt the enticement closing in again
I walked toward his office, my heart beating with a rhythm of pure anxiety. When I pushed the door open, the scent of him—that sandalwood and cedar—hit me like a physical blow.
He was sitting behind his massive mahogany desk, a mountain of paperwork spread before him. He didn't even look up at first. He looked every bit the chief of staff—composed, powerful, and utterly professional.
"The bag is on the side table," he said casually, his voice a low, steady baritone. "The chef made chicken piccata. Eat it while you have a break."
I stood there, paralyzed. I wanted to scream. I wanted to ask him how he could sit there and act as if we hadn't been tangled in his silk sheets six hours ago. I wanted to ask if the "Ice Queen" was just a trophy for him to melt. But his indifference was a wall I couldn't climb.
"Thank you, Chief," I managed to whisper. I grabbed the bag and left.
The remainder of the shift was a complete mess. My thoughts were racing, and I was confused. Every time I looked at a patient's chart, I saw his eyes. I wondered if the nurses could smell him on me every time they spoke to me. I felt cheap. I felt taken advantage of. I spent the afternoon in a cloud of quiet sadness, mourning the version of myself that was still "untouched" by the challenges of Larissa.