"Excellent recommendations. Particularly from Dr. Lenowitz in cardiology."
I nod, not sure where this is going. "He was very supportive."
"And yet." Dr. Walker's gaze sweeps over me again, from my messy braid to my rumpled clothes. "Your first act at SierraMercy is to create chaos in the lobby and challenge my authority in the ER."
"My first act was saving a life," I correct, unable to help myself. "The rest was... collateral."
For a split second—so brief I almost miss it—the corner of his mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. More like he's suppressing some reaction he doesn't want me to see. Then it's gone, replaced by that same stern assessment.
"I already know you're going to be trouble," he says, emphasizing the word in a way that makes it sound like a proper noun. A title. My new identity.
It settles over me like an ill-fitting coat. Trouble. Not brilliant. Not promising. Not even competent. Just Trouble, with a capital T.
"Dr. Walker, I—"
He holds up a hand, cutting me off. "Get upstairs to diagnostics. Get properly signed in, get your credentials, and get oriented before you decide to play hero again."
I should nod and retreat. I should be grateful he's not firing me on the spot. I should absolutely, positively not say another word.
"I wasn't playing," I say, because apparently my self-preservation instinct took the day off. "And I'd do it again."
Dr. Walker's eyes narrow slightly. For a long moment, he just looks at me, like he's seeing something unexpected. Something that doesn't fit his initial assessment.
"Upstairs," he finally says, voice clipped. "Now."
He turns and strides away before I can respond, his white coat billowing slightly with the force of his movement. Several nurses quickly find reasons to look busy as he passes.
I stand there for a moment, my pulse still racing from the confrontation. Embarrassment, frustration, and a stubborn sense of rightness war within me. I did the right thing medically. I know I did. But I also just managed to make the worst possiblefirst impression on the man who will determine the course of my fellowship—and possibly my entire career.
Trouble. The word echoes in my head as I finally turn toward the elevators.
A nurse passes by—the same one who was in the lobby—and pauses. "Hey," she says quietly. "For what it's worth, good call out there. Mr. Daniels has a history of cardiac issues. You probably saved his life."
Mr. Daniels. The patient has a name now. A history. A future, because I acted.
"Thanks," I manage, offering a small smile.
She glances in the direction Dr. Walker disappeared. "Don't let him get to you. He's... well, he's always like that. Brilliant, but..."
"Difficult?" I supply.
"That's one word for it." She smiles briefly. "Good luck up there."
I'm going to need it, I think as I make my way to the elevators. The doors slide open with a soft ding, and I step inside, pressing the button for the fourth floor. As the doors close, I catch my reflection in the polished metal—flushed cheeks, escaped curls framing my face, a determined set to my jaw that would make my father proud.
Trouble. If that's what Dr. Sebastian Walker wants to call me, fine. I'll show him what kind of trouble I can be. The kind that saves lives. The kind that solves cases. The kind he'll eventually have to respect, whether he wants to or not.
The elevator rises, and with it, my resolve. Day one isn't going according to plan, but then again, the best diagnoses rarely follow the textbook. I straighten my shoulders, tuck a stray curl behind my ear, and prepare to face whatever comes next.
Trouble is reporting for duty.
Chapter 2
Sebastian
Istride down the corridor, my footsteps echoing against the polished linoleum like metronomes counting off my irritation. The interaction with Dr. Phillips keeps replaying in my mind—her flushed face, that stubborn lift of her chin when she said she'd do it again. I hate that part of me almost believes her. Almost respects it. Almost wants to see what other rules she'd break given half the chance. This is precisely the kind of complication I don't need on my service.
"Walking that fast, someone might think you're running away from something. Or someone."
