EMMA
"Code Blue! Code Blue!"
The automated voice blasts through the intercom on the second floor. Every resident and intern flies across the hallway, rushing toward Ward Six.
Could this day get any better? I let out an heavy sigh, type one last note into the computer, and stand up.
"Nurse? Uhm…"
"Carter. Nurse Emma Carter," I answer, turning to face the man everyone on this floor can't stop whispering about.
I glance at the embroidery on his coat to confirm his name anyway.
Dr. Chase.
Up close, I get it. Sharp jawline, clean-cut features, the kind of face that could sell luxury watches or break a thousand hearts— depending on the day. I wouldn't know what the rest of his body looked like, and unlike the other nurses I don't plan on getting that knowledge myself, ever.
"Patient 3306 — the one scheduled for surgery in five hours. I couldn't find her folder," he says in a tone that expects efficiency, not conversation. He seemed like the kind of man who states what he wants and hopes to get exactly that with no excuses.
I glance over the counter, spot the folder instantly, and hand it to him.
He nods once and walks away without another word.
Olivia, one of the newer nurses, slides closer with wide eyes. "How were you so chill?"
She joined the hospital about two months ago.
"What?"
"You just talked to him like— casually!" she whispers, offended.
"Was that wrong?"
"He's the Dr. Chase," she stresses, like I missed the breaking news.
"I'm aware."
"One of the best neurosurgeons in town. The best, actually," she adds, for dramatic effect. I've heard the speech three times today from three different people.
Before I can reply, a firm voice cuts through our conversation.
"Gossiping about handsome doctors or rich patients?"
Chief Nurse Forbes stands a few steps away, arms crossed.
"This is your first day, Nurse Carter. It's too soon to engage in unnecessary conversations that don't benefit your patients' health," she says, her tone clipped and cool.
"Understood, ma'am. I was just getting a briefing from Olivia," I reply quickly.
Forbes gives Olivia a look that could solidify liquid before walking off.
A different nurse rushes over, handing me a clipboard. "Pharmacy just delivered meds for the new patient down the hall."
So much for breathing room.
---
By the time my shift finally ends, my feet feel like bricks, from all that work. I change out of my scrubs, grab my bag, and head for the parking lot. Sliding into the driver's seat feels like the first good decision I've made all day.
I close my eyes for a second, exhaling slowly — until there's a tap on my window.
I jolt, heart jumping. Then I see her: Olivia. Grinning like she just won a prize.
"Going home?" she mouths. Who asks such obvious question?
I nod and roll down the window. "Hey, Olivia. Any problem with a patient?"
She laughs, unbothered, like she didn't get the sarcasm. "Patient? No! Our shift ended, remember?" Another laugh. "I just need a ride home. Maybe we can bond a little, unless, you know, you're not comfortable and want me to take the bus which is usually a lot of stress for me."
Oh no. Not the emotional guilt trip.
I sigh. "No, it's fine. Get in."
She beams and hops into the passenger seat.
I start the car, muttering under my breath, "I hate today."
"Where do you live?" I ask, already praying it's not in my direction.
Olivia leans back in the seat, fastening her seatbelt like she's settling in for a road trip. "Elm Street, near the old bakery."
I suppress a groan. That's not only in my direction, it's before my house.
"Perfect," I mumble, pulling out of the parking lot.
The drive starts in silence, broken only by the hum of the radio and Olivia's occasional hums along to it. For someone who just worked a twelve-hour shift, she surprisingly has way too much energy.
After a minute, she turns to me. "So, how do you like Maplewood so far?"
"It's quiet," I say simply.
"That's code for boring."
"Then, yes. Boring."
She laughs, then leans closer like she's about to share confidential information. "Oh, it gets interesting sometimes, especially on your side of town."
I glance at her briefly. "My side?"
"Yeah! You live on Willow street, right? Near that huge mansion across the lakeside?"
I hesitate before nodding.
Her eyes light up. "So you've seen him?"
"Seen who?"
"The guy who owns it! Ethan Hayes. The billionaire."
I nearly miss a turn. "The what?"
"Billionaire," she repeats with too much enthusiasm. "Used to live in New York, I think. His parents died in some accident years ago, and he inherited everything. He's kind of a mystery — doesn't talk to anyone, doesn't attend local events, barely even leaves that house. Probably a sociopath. Oh and he's engaged to another billionaire's daughter, she's really beautiful. I met her once at the hospital."
"He's engaged?"
"Yes, everyone knows that. She sets her boundaries well."
I grip the steering wheel tighter, forcing a neutral tone. "Sounds like you've done your research."
"Please. Everyone in Maplewood knows the Hayes family. The mansion is like a ghost story around here. People say the guy never smiles, and that he fired five housekeepers in one month."
I chuckle under my breath. "Maybe they deserved it."
She gasps, mock-offended. "Defending the villain already? Careful, you might start liking him."
"He's not my type, besides you said he's engaged" I say flatly.
Olivia grins. "You don't even know what he looks like."
If only she knew.
I don't answer, and she doesn't notice my silence, she's already scrolling through her phone. "Anyway, welcome to Maplewood officially, Emma. Where the hospital never sleeps, the coffee tastes like anxiety, and the billionaire next door probably stares at you through his expensive blinds."
"You don't know that. That's creepy."
She giggles, and keeps on scrolling through her phone.
I pull up in front of her building. "End of the line, Olivia."
She hops out, waving. "See you tomorrow, my lady!"
I wait until she's gone before exhaling, gripping the wheel for a moment. So much for today, I'm only looking forward to meeting my bed.
--
I park my car in front of the porch, the swing outside makes a creaking sound because of the wind, and I suddenly remember I promised to fix it. I'll try to do that this weekend.
I hang my purse on my shoulder and make my way to the door. In a split second, I'm inside the house and I'm grateful it no longer has that abandoned smell. It probably smells like me now – and I don't know if that's a good thing.
I walk to the kitchen, still empty, reminding me of my second thing to do – stock the house with food and other kitchen stuffs. I grab a bottle of water from the counter and take a long sip, leaning against the kitchen counter. The clock above the fridge ticks louder than it should. Everything about this house is louder when you're alone.
The wooden floors creak under my steps as I head for the living room, dropping my bag onto the couch. My phone buzzes in my pocket — a text from Ria, my best friend from home back in LA.
'You survived your first day?'
I huff a tired laugh and type back, 'Barely. I'm convinced my legs detached somewhere around 2 p.m.'
She replies almost instantly.
'Told you small-town hospitals are worse than city ones. At least the gossip is free entertainment.'
I smile faintly, shaking my head. 'You'd fit right in with the nurses here.'
No response this time. Just the typing dots that linger, then disappear. I stare at the screen for a few seconds before tossing the phone aside.
The quiet returns, heavier this time.
I suddenly remember Josh and his proposal to come here for a few days – he never fails to frustrate me.
I switch on the lamp near the window. It flickers once before casting a warm, amber glow across the room. Outside, the wind rustles the trees, and my porch swing creaks again – steady, rhythmic.
Except this time, it doesn't sound like the wind.
I freeze, every muscle tight. Then, slowly, I step closer to the window. The yard is empty, the porch still. Across the narrow stretch of road, I could sight the mansion – distant but unmistakable. A single window glows faintly on the second floor.
Someone's awake.
My stomach tightens. The light shifts slightly, as if someone just moved past it. I tell myself it's nothing — maybe just the housekeeper or a motion sensor light. But my pulse doesn't believe me.
I close the curtain and turn away. "You're just tired," I whisper to myself. "Sleep deprivation causes paranoia. You learned that in nursing school."
Still, I double-check the locks before heading upstairs.
In my room, I sit on the edge of the bed, tug off my shoes, before getting up to take a shower. That, and sleep is probably what I need now.