Chapter 3 From Pretend to Real

I hadn’t expected to see Mercy General again so soon.

The rain lashed against the car windows as we pulled up to the emergency entrance, my driver navigating through the chaos of ambulances and rushing staff. The hospital’s floodlights cut through the downpour, casting sharp reflections on the slick pavement.

Dylan hadn’t spoken since my assistant called with the news.

*Outbreak. Emergency protocols. Possible quarantine.*

Three hours ago, Mercy General had admitted a patient presenting with fever, rash, and organ failure. Six more had since arrived with identical symptoms. And now, the CDC was en route.

I turned to Dylan. His jaw was set, his hands flexing against his knees. The same hands that had signed the contract between us just days ago.

"You don’t have to go in," I said.

His laugh was short, humorless. "Yes, I do."

"Your shift ended five hours ago."

"And half my patients can’t walk without assistance." He shoved the car door open. Rain immediately soaked through the shoulders of his coat. "Go home, Harper. This isn’t your fight."

I followed him out.

The ER was bedlam. Nurses in full PPE rushed between curtained bays, their voices muffled behind masks. The waiting room overflowed with coughing patients, some holding bloodied tissues to their mouths. A harried administrator shouted into a phone, demanding more ventilators.

Dylan vanished into the staff locker room without another word.

I stood there, useless in my designer heels, until a young nurse recognized me. "Ms. Winslow—thank God. We need supplies. More gowns, gloves, N95s—"

I was already dialing.

Two hours later, Winslow Medical trucks rolled in with emergency shipments. I hadn’t waited for board approval—I’d just authorized it.

When I finally found Dylan again, he was crouched beside a child’s gurney, his gloved hand carefully adjusting an oxygen mask. The girl couldn’t have been more than seven, her dark hair stuck to her forehead with sweat.

"—name’s Lily," he was saying, his voice softer than I’d ever heard it. "You like butterflies?"

She nodded weakly.

"Good. Close your eyes and imagine one, okay? Big blue wings, sitting right on your finger." His stethoscope moved across her tiny chest. "We’re gonna make you feel better."

The girl’s mother stood nearby, clutching her own elbows. "Is she—?"

Dylan didn’t lie. "We’re doing everything we can."

I should have left. Instead, I found myself tying on a mask and gloves.

For the next three days, I didn’t sleep.

Neither did Dylan.

I coordinated supply chains from a makeshift office in the admin wing. Dylan moved between patients, his stamina inhuman. When the CDC arrived, he briefed them with clinical precision. When relatives demanded answers, he gave them without flinching.

And when he thought no one was looking, he pressed his forehead against the wall outside the ICU and exhaled like the weight of the world was crushing him.

I brought him coffee at 3 AM on the second night. The break room was empty save for a single flickering fluorescent light.

He didn’t thank me, just took the cup with hands that trembled slightly from exhaustion.

"Go home," he rasped.

"Not until you do."

His gaze flicked to me, bloodshot but alert. "Why are you still here?"

I could have given a dozen answers. Because the board was watching. Because Winslow owned this hospital. Because I needed to oversee the crisis.

Instead, I said, "Because you are."

Something unreadable passed across his face. We stood there in silence, the hum of medical equipment and distant voices our only company. Then his head dipped forward, exhaustion finally winning.

Without thinking, I reached out—

His hand met mine halfway.

His fingers were warm despite the hospital’s chill, his grip firm. He didn’t let go. Neither did I.

We stayed like that for a long moment.

Then the code blue alarm sounded.

Dylan was out the door before I could blink.

By dawn on the third day, the worst had passed. No new cases. No more deaths. Just the long road of recovery ahead.

I found Dylan asleep in an on-call room, slumped over a desk with his forehead resting on crossed arms. His white coat was streaked with fluids I didn’t want to identify, his hair sticking up in every direction.

I should have let him rest.

Instead, I nudged his shoulder. "Dylan."

He startled awake instantly, hands braced against the desk like he expected another emergency. "What—?"

"You need real sleep."

He rubbed his face. "I’m fine."

"You’re not." I held out my keys. "Come home."

The penthouse was silent when we arrived. Dylan walked in like a man in a daze, barely glancing at the expensive artwork or floor-to-ceiling windows.

"Guest room’s down the hall," I said. "Towels in the—"

He was already stripping off his ruined dress shirt, exposing the white t-shirt beneath. I caught a glimpse of toned arms before forcing my gaze away.

"Shower first," he muttered, more to himself than me.

Twenty minutes later, he emerged in borrowed sweats (too short on him) with damp hair curling at his temples. The hollows under his eyes looked bruised in the morning light.

I pushed a plate of toast toward him. "Eat."

He ignored it, collapsing onto the couch instead. "I need thirty minutes."

"You need eight hours."

"Not how residency works." His eyes were already closing.

I sighed, grabbing a blanket from the armchair. "At least lie down properly."

When I draped it over him, his hand shot out, catching my wrist.

I froze.

His grip was firm but not painful, his thumb resting against my pulse point. His eyes opened—just enough to meet mine.

"...Thanks," he murmured.

My throat tightened. Something dangerous flickered in my chest.

Then his grip loosened, his hand falling away as sleep reclaimed him.

I stepped back carefully.

This was supposed to be transactional. Professional. Temporary.

So why did standing here, watching him sleep, feel like stepping off a cliff?

___

Three days later, I caught him leaving my penthouse at 4 AM.

I hadn’t meant to. I’d woken for water and seen the guest room door ajar. Then the faint click of the front door.

By the time I reached the hallway, he was gone.

But his wallet lay forgotten on the side table.

I flipped it open without thinking—then froze.

Behind his ID, tucked carefully between credit cards, was a worn photograph of a woman with dark curls and Dylan’s eyes. His mother, maybe?

And beneath it—a business card.

Dr. Eleanor Voss, MD
Chief of Psychiatry, St. Vincent’s Hospital

The name from his phone at the gala.

I snapped the wallet shut.

None of my business.

Except when Dylan returned an hour later, his jacket smelled like antiseptic and something else—something clinical. Not a bar. Not a lover’s apartment.

A hospital.

He stopped short when he saw me waiting at the kitchen island.

"Everything alright?" I asked lightly.

His gaze flicked to his wallet in my hand. "You going through my things now?"

"You left it." I tossed it to him. "Wouldn’t want you stranded without ID, *darling.*"

He caught it one-handed, his expression unreadable. Then he turned toward the guest room.

I couldn’t stop myself. "St. Vincent’s doesn’t have an ER."

His shoulders tensed. "No."

"Psych ward, though."

A beat of silence. Then—

"Consult," he said flatly.

"At 4 AM?"

He turned then, his face carefully blank. "What do you want me to say, Harper?"

The question hung between us.

I wanted the truth. I wanted him to lie. I wanted—

"Nothing," I said at last. "It’s none of my business."

He studied me for a long moment, something unspoken in his eyes. Then he nodded once and walked away.

That should have been the end of it.

But later, while he slept, I found myself standing in the guest room doorway, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest.

And for the first time since we signed that damned contract, I realized the danger wasn’t in the pretending.

It was in the moments when we weren’t.