On Christmas Eve, my sister texted, “Don’t come tonight—my surgeon boyfriend doesn’t need your peasant life ruining our image,” while they mocked me all dinner long, convinced I was just a hospital assistant. Three days later, the ER doors exploded open with her boyfriend bleeding out on a gurney—and his face drained white when he saw me leading the trauma team. He tried bluffing a diagnosis to save face… until he passed my office and became completely impatient.

My heart did a strange, rhythmic skip. Marcus. The “Surgical Prodigy” was currently being wheeled into my trauma bay, bleeding out from a reckless attempt to play the hero on the way to a party he’d used to promote a lie.

Cliffhanger: Suddenly, the emergency double doors burst open with a violent crash. It wasn’t just the paramedics. Isabella was there, her silk gown ripped and stained with mud and road-grime, screaming at the top of her lungs, her voice a jagged blade of hysteria. “Get out of the way! My boyfriend is a VIP! He’s a prestigious surgeon! He’s more important than any of you peasants!” She stopped dead when she saw me standing in the center of the room, draped in the authority of my surgical gear.