Chapter 1 - The Weight of a Name
The cardboard cup of hospital cafeteria coffee burned through my sleeve, but the heat was a welcome anchor against the hum of the critical care unit.
Callum Ror took the cup with fingers that looked too steady for a man whose father had flatlined twice in forty-eight hours. The overhead fluorescent light caught the sharp angle of his jawline, a shadow of exhaustion resting beneath his dark eyes. He didn’t drink immediately. He just stared at the swirling black surface, as if expecting the caffeine to reveal corporate espionage or a rival family’s secret maneuver.
“You didn’t have to buy this,” he said, his voice dropping into that low, gravelly register that seemed to vibrate through the hallway.
“I didn't,” I replied, leaning my shoulder against the cool glass window overlooking the rain-slicked city streets. “I bought one for myself and realized I couldn't stand watching you stare through that window like a gargoyle any longer. Drink it. It’s bitter, but it keeps you upright.”
Callum took a slow sip. He didn't wince, though the hospital coffee was notoriously closer to industrial solvent than Arabica.
“Malcolm is testing you,” he said abruptly, his gaze remaining fixed on the skyline.
“Malcolm is a liability to his brother's recovery,” I corrected, pushing my glasses up the bridge of my nose. “And if he brings three more suits onto this floor tomorrow, I’m calling county sheriff's deputies to escort them out under a public nuisance ordinance. I don't care about the Ror family tree, Callum. I care about the monitor readings in Room 304.”
Callum finally turned his head, looking at me with that strange, unsettling intensity that made every nerve ending in my body snap to attention. It wasn't the look of a mafia scion sizing up a threat; it was the look of a man trying to solve a puzzle he hadn't anticipated.
“You really aren't afraid of the name, are you?” he asked softly.
“I deal with people who think dying is an inconvenience every single day,” I said, turning to face him fully. “A last name doesn't restart a failing sinus node, and it doesn't clear blocked arteries. If your uncle wants to play patriarch, he can do it in the parking garage.”
A faint, dry exhale escaped Callum’s lips—not quite a laugh, but a concession.
Before he could answer, the emergency intercom above our heads chimed twice.
May you like
Code Blue, Trauma Bay 2.
My coffee cup hit the small ledge by the window with a sharp clatter. In a fraction of a second, the tired nurse disappeared, and the head trauma specialist took over.
