Chapter 2

Ophelia's POV

Six years later

Lisa had booked the kind of ballroom that made me nervous about spilling anything.

Crystal chandeliers hung above the marble floor, and arrangements of wildflowers brightened the tables. Music filled the room. Across the dance floor, my best friend spun around with one of our colleagues, laughing so hard she nearly missed a step.

She'd gone all out for her birthday. Watching her, I was glad she had.

“Ophelia!”

She danced over and caught my hand, tugging me away from the column I'd been standing beside.

“It's my birthday. You're supposed to be having fun.”

“I am having fun.”

“You look like you're assessing everyone.” She hooked her arm through mine. “This is one of the most exclusive places in Beverly Hills, and we've all got rooms upstairs. No excuses. We're staying until we can't stand.”

I laughed. “All right. One night off.”

“That's the spirit.”

It did feel good to be here. No patients to check on, no reading waiting on my desk. For once, I could stay out without watching the clock.

By midnight, the bass was thumping through the floor. Colored lights swept over the dancers, and Lisa appeared beside me with a cocktail in each hand.

Both were bright enough to make me suspicious.

“The bartender made these specially for my birthday,” she said, handing me one.

“Lisa, I'm already a little dizzy. You know I barely drink.”

“Then you're overdue.” She tapped her glass against mine. “No patients, no surgeries, no medical journals tonight. We're getting drunk. Drink up.”

I took a cautious sip.

Sweet. Surprisingly good. I tried another, waiting for the alcohol to catch at the back of my throat, but it never did.

By the time I finished it, I was warm all the way down to my fingertips.

I lost track of the party after that. People must have left. The music got quieter at some point. I remember holding a cool glass against my palm and thinking how nice it was not to have anything urgent to do.

“Ophelia?”

I turned a little too quickly.

Lisa caught my elbow. “You okay? Want me to walk you upstairs? I got you a VIP suite.”

I straightened, carefully.

“I'm fine. I can find it. Fifty-eight fifty-eight.”

“Are you sure? I thought yours was fifty-five eighty-eight.”

“No. Fifty-eight fifty-eight.” I nodded to confirm this with myself. “I remember.”

She watched me sway.

“Neurosurgery,” I added, as if this settled anything. “Excellent memory.”

“Uh-huh. Want some help?”

“Lisa. I'm a trained professional. I can find a hotel room.”

She hesitated, then let go of my arm.

“Text me when you're inside, okay?”

“Of course.”

I headed for the exit. Or the restrooms. Halfway there, I realized I wasn't entirely sure which and changed direction.

The lobby floor was a problem.

It looked level. It ought to have been level. Still, every few steps I had to adjust for a slight tilt that hadn't been there a second ago.

I fixed my eyes on the elevators and concentrated. Surely walking across a lobby shouldn't require more care than brain surgery.

A couple coming the other way moved aside to let me pass. I gave them a grateful nod and immediately regretted moving my head.

At the elevator, an attendant held the doors.

“Good evening, ma'am. Which floor?”

“Fifty-eight.”

I pronounced both words distinctly, then leaned against the mirrored wall.

“Of course.”

He pressed the button. There was a small smile at the corner of his mouth. I wondered how many people he'd taken upstairs like this tonight.

The elevator started moving, and my stomach lagged behind.

I shut my eyes. Breathe in. Breathe out. Almost there.

When the doors chimed open, I stepped into a carpeted hallway. Wall lights cast a soft glow over the wallpaper. Much easier on the eyes than the ballroom.

I veered left, caught myself, and reached for the wall.

“Five, eight, five, eight.”

I kept my fingertips against the wallpaper as I walked. Every door looked the same, and the numbers were annoyingly difficult to read.

“Fifty-eight eighty-six. Fifty-eight eighty-seven…”

I stopped at the next one and squinted.

There were definitely fives or eights involved. Mostly eights. That seemed close enough.

Better still, the door was open a crack.

I wouldn't even have to find my key.

I blinked at the number once more. The digits wouldn't stay still long enough to argue with.

I pushed the door open.

“Wow.”

Lisa hadn't been kidding about the suite.

The living room was enormous. Beyond the furniture, floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over a spread of city lights. I paused to admire them, then remembered what I'd come upstairs to do.

Bed. I needed a bed.

Something low caught my shin. An ottoman, maybe. I stumbled, grabbed a side table, and held very still while it wobbled beneath my hand.

Nothing fell. Good.

I continued toward the bedroom, placing each foot with care, and pushed open the door.

There it was.

A huge bed, pale sheets, a thick duvet. Enough light came through the windows for me to get to it without finding a switch.

I passed a chair with a suit jacket thrown over it. Cufflinks and a watch sat on the nightstand; the watch probably cost more than I made in a month. None of it held my attention. Even the shape beneath the duvet barely registered.

I was already reaching for the fastening on my dress.

It took some work. My fingers kept slipping, and I had to stop and figure out what I was pulling at. Finally, the fabric loosened, and I let it fall around my feet.

“Such a good party,” I murmured, stepping out of it. “Way too much to drink, though.”

Hopefully no one would notice tomorrow.

In my underwear, I made it to the bed and sank onto the mattress.

Oh, that was better.

Except something about it felt uneven.

I shifted, trying to find a comfortable spot.

“Why isn't it flat?” I mumbled. “Hospital beds are all full again…”

I reached for the duvet.

My fingers touched something warm.

I left them there for a second, trying to work out what I was holding.

A hand.

That was a hand.

Before I could make sense of it, a man's voice came out of the darkness, low and unmistakably familiar.

“Ophelia?”