Page 43 of Mirror Image

“Relevant?” I stop walking, forcing him to turn. “You’re the reason they’re here, Julian. The reason I’m here.”

He exhales through his nose. “My only concern is Mary’s well-being.”

A short, humorless laugh escapes me. “The same way my well-being was your concern?”

That lands. For the first time, his composure wavers—just a flicker, but I catch it. Then he looks at me, really looks, and says quietly, “You’re right. I should have told you.”

It’s not an apology, not really. But it’s the closest he’s capable of.

I nod once and start walking again. By the time we reach the security desk, the tension has cooled into an uneasy truce.

A guard sits at a small desk flanked by two monitors—one with a spreadsheet of scheduled visitors, the other showing a grid of camera feeds. His name tag reads Jerry. When Julian pulls out his badge, I do the same.

He swipes both our IDs through a card reader and returns them with a polite smile. “Thank you, Dr. B. And welcome, Dr. Flores. I’ve got you cleared for access through Tuesday, correct?”

“Yes, perfect,” I say, matching his professional tone.

He presses the elevator call button for us, and moments later, the doors glide open.

Inside, the lighting is low and cool, the air faintly antiseptic. Neither of us speaks. I watch our reflections in the brushed steel—his posture loose and confident, mine stiff with restraint.

When the doors open again, a wave of soft light and filtered air hits me like I’ve stepped through a portal.

The fifth floor—Executive Care Unit, better known among staff as the VIP ward. While 99 percent of us endure the fluorescent indignities of a regular hospital floor, the remaining 1 percent live in another world entirely: private multiroom suites, one-to-one care, and security that rivals a head of state.

This is my first time stepping foot on one of these floors, and my jaw goes slack.

“My God,” I murmur, taking in the reception area—more boutique hotel than hospital.

He gestures for me to exit first into a bright, polished space where every surface gleams. The marble floor reflects the light from soft-amber sconces. A second security officer gives us a courteous nod as we approach the reception counter, where a woman in a plum suit sits behind a sleek computer terminal.

“Good morning, Margaret,” Julian greets her. “This is Dr. Flores. She’ll have full access to the floor.”

Margaret, fiftysomething, with flawless makeup and honey-brown hair twisted neatly at the back of her head, flashes a professional smile. “Nice to meet you, Dr. Flores. Welcome. I’m one of the concierges.”

“Concierge?” I echo, unable to hide my surprise.

“Yes,” she says, clearly used to the reaction. “Just like at a hotel. Someone’s always here—if you need anything at all, from takeout or flowers to pharmacy deliveries or dinner reservations, just come out here or dial zero.”

“Right . . . okay,” I say, still trying to reconcile these luxuries with the overworked nurses and worn linoleum four floors below. I must look like a tourist, gawking at the framed art and window views of downtown. Somewhere beneath us, patients are waiting eight hours for a bed. But up here? You probably need only sigh before an organic smoothie appears.

Margaret buzzes us through a glass door into a hushed corridor carpeted in muted Persian rugs. Soft sconces throw amber pools of light against taupe walls, and the faint scent of lavender hangs in the air.

“It’s quite something, isn’t it?” Julian asks, with a grin, clearly enjoying my reaction.

“It really is,” I admit, hurrying to keep up. “I knew these units existed; I just never thought I’d set foot in one.”

“Ah, well. You’re in for a treat. Jonathan Adler consulted on the redesign.”

“Seriously?” I laugh. “What, are the menus by Jamie Oliver?”

“Wolfgang Puck Catering,” he corrects.

I stare at him. “You’re kidding.”

He grins. “Would I joke about cuisine?”

“Apparently not,” I mutter.