Chapter 1 The Emergency Room Encounter
I walked through the automatic doors, heels clicking sharply against the linoleum floor. My assistant, Daniel, trailed behind me with a tablet in hand, rattling off statistics about patient intake and surgical success rates. I nodded along, barely listening. The board wanted assurances that this hospital was worth the investment, and I was here to give them.
Then the emergency alarms blared.
A nurse's sharp voice cut through the noise. "Incoming trauma—multi-vehicle collision on I-95, three critical, ETA two minutes!"
The ER snapped into motion. Gurneys rolled into position, nurses prepped IV lines, and the overhead fluorescents flickered like a strobe light in the sudden flurry of activity. I stepped back, watching with detached interest—until *he* walked in.
Dr. Dylan Prescott moved with the kind of effortless precision that only came from years of experience. He wasn't the tallest man in the room, but he commanded it anyway. His dark hair was slightly disheveled, his white coat wrinkled, but his eyes—sharp, calculating, wholly focused—left no room for doubt.
"Get me a portable ultrasound," he said, pulling on gloves. "Prep for intubation on Bed 3, chest tube on Bed 1. Someone page Trauma—I want an OR on standby."
I wasn't supposed to stop and watch. I wasn't supposed to care. But there was something unnerving about the way he worked—quietly, efficiently, like a man who had seen too much and still chose to fight anyway.
When the first patient came in—a woman with a piece of shrapnel embedded in her abdomen—he didn't flinch. Didn't hesitate. Just said, "Pressure here," guiding a nurse's hands before moving to the next victim.
The second was worse—a teenager, pale and unresponsive, his breaths shallow. Dylan's voice stayed steady. "Pulse is thready. We need blood now."
By the third patient, a man whose ribs had caved in from impact, Dylan didn't wait for Trauma Surgery. He just grabbed a scalpel and made the incision himself, fingers moving with terrifying certainty.
I should've left. I had a meeting in thirty minutes. But something kept me rooted to the spot, watching him work.
When it was finally over, when the last patient had been stabilized and wheeled away, Dylan stepped back from the fray, stripping off bloodied gloves. He looked exhausted, his shoulders slumped, but his hands were steady as he washed them at the sink.
I approached.
"Dr. Prescott." My voice was clipped, professional. "I'm Harper Winslow."
He glanced at me, then back at the water swirling pink down the drain. "You're in my way."
Charming.
"This is my hospital," I said coolly. "Or it will be, once the acquisition goes through."
That made him pause. His eyes flicked over me—assessing, unimpressed. "Congratulations." He reached for a towel. "If you'll excuse me, I have charts to finish."
I didn't move. "You're good at your job."
"That's why they pay me."
"I could pay you more."
That got his attention. His brow arched. "I'm not a surgeon you can poach, Ms. Winslow."
"No," I agreed. "But I'm not here to hire you as a doctor."
His expression darkened. "Then what do you want?"
"I need a boyfriend."
Silence. Then—
"You're joking."
"Three months," I said. "Public appearances only. No strings, no expectations. Just enough to convince the board I'm not a flight risk before they hand me the CEO position."
He stared at me. "You're serious."
"Completely."
"No." He turned away.
I let him take two steps before saying, "Twenty million in research funding."
He stopped.
"Unrestricted," I added. "Your name on the studies. Your choice of focus."
His jaw tightened. I could practically see the calculations running behind his eyes.
Then, just as I was about to sweeten the deal, his computer screen flickered. A password prompt appeared—strange for a hospital workstation—but before I could get a better look, he snapped the lid shut.
Interesting.
"Three months," he said finally, voice low. "No physical contact outside of what's necessary. No family introductions. And I approve the funding allocation."
I smiled. "Deal."
When I walked out of the ER, Daniel was waiting with a raised eyebrow. "Well?"
"Set up a meeting with legal," I said. "We're drafting a contract."
Because whatever game Dr. Dylan Prescott was playing, I'd just made myself a part of it. And I *never* lost.
