I exited, fixing my red Prada coat and grabbing my purse, then stood in disbelief in front of General Wellness Hospital. The voices in my head were raging with the main question being:why the fuck was I here?
But I brushed it all off and made my way inside, the heel of my stilettos tapping on the shiny porcelain tiles.
Approaching the receptionist’s desk, I cleared my throat and asked, “Good night. Is Dr. Romano available?”
“Good night!” she exclaimed cheerfully. “May I ask who?”
As I opened my mouth to reply, a sudden wave of uncertainty washed over me, causing a knot of nausea in my stomach. I hesitated, my words catching in my throat, realizing perhaps it was a mistake to come here.
Apologizing softly, I turned on my heel, intending to leave swiftly.
“Nina?” His voice stopped me in my tracks, freezing me in place as if my feet were rooted to the ground.
I sighed heavily, slowly turning back around, running a hand through my hair nervously, before I saw him standing there.
“Ronan,” I breathed, barely audible, meeting his gray-blue gaze with my own. After all these years—tabloids, runways, headlines—this was the first time I truly saw him.
He stood in bloodstained scrubs, commanding yet vulnerable under the soft lights of the hospital foyer. It echoed the boy who once dreamed of becoming a doctor, who spoke of it in late-night whispers, who carried the weight of losing his family to cancer.
This was a Ronan I didn’t know. A man who saved lives and lived with their fragility.
I drew a steadying breath as he stepped closer, shock etched across his face.
Truthfully, I was as stunned to be here.
“You’re here…” he said, his voice trailing off in disbelief. “Is everything okay?”
I nodded hesitantly. “Yes.”
“Then w—” He started to inquire further, but I cut him off before the question could embarrass us both.
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?” he echoed, uncertainty coloring his voice.
“That’s what I said,” I affirmed, my tone rising slightly with nerves.
“In that case,” he said, gesturing for me to follow him. “I’m glad you’re here.”
I fell into step beside him through the busy corridors until we reached his office.
It felt like a quiet sanctuary—warm light, polished wood, framed certifications lining the walls. His desk was neatly chaotic with papers and files, the kind of mess only he could keep organized. I smiled, remembering how he’d fix a crooked shoe or steam a wrinkled shirt without hesitation.
Then I saw it.
A framed photo of me from a summer picnic with hair straightened and in a carefree ponytail, and a smile full of light.
The sight was soft and aching.
He kept it all these years.
I picked up the frame, glancing at him. “This…”
He looked around at me without skipping a beat. “Your birthday.”
“You kept it?” I asked, surprised.
“Why wouldn’t I?” he replied, his tone sincere.
