Emma twisted further in her seat. "Bodies react. Doesn't mean your mind has to follow. You're allowed to feel attraction and still hate the person. You're allowed to want to punch her in the face and still notice how her blazer hugged her shoulders. Doesn't make you weak. Makes you human."
Sara pulled off the bridge, turning onto quieter streets toward Brooklyn Heights. "Get over it, Ro. Not tonight—tonight you're allowed to be pissed and shaken. But tomorrow? Tomorrow you go back to being Dr. Blackwood. The one who doesn't flinch. The one who saves lives without asking for thanks. If she shows up at the hospital again—because let's be real, she probably will—you treat her like any other patient. Professional. Detached. Boundaries up. She doesn't get to live rent-free in your head."
Rowan opened her eyes, staring at her reflection in the dark window—flushed cheeks, smudged eyeliner, lips still tingling from the ghost of Isadora's near-kiss.
"She promised me one week," she said quietly.
Sara's brow furrowed. "What?"
"In my ear. While we danced. She said she had one week. To make me… admit something. I don't even know what."
Emma's expression darkened. "Then you make those seven days hell for her. Every time she tries to push, you push back harder. Document everything. Boundaries. No private conversations. No physical contact. If she crosses a line, report it. She's a patient now—or she will be if she actually shows up for treatment. Use the system. She can't charm her way out of ethics violations."
Sara pulled up outside Rowan's brownstone, engine idling.
"Out," she said softly. "Go inside. Shower. Sleep. Tomorrow you wake up and she's just a name in a chart. Nothing more."
Rowan nodded—slow, mechanical—then reached for the door handle.
Before she got out, she turned back to them.
"Thanks," she said. Quiet. Real. "For not letting me fall apart in front of everyone."
Emma smiled—small, fierce. "We've got you. Always."
Sara squeezed her shoulder once through the seat gap. "Now go. And lock the door behind you. That brat doesn't get to haunt your house tonight."
Rowan stepped out into the cool night air, heels clicking on the stoop. She didn't look back as the SUV pulled away.
Inside, she locked the door.
Leaned against it.
Closed her eyes.
And for the first time since the dance floor, let herself feel the full weight of what Isadora had done.
Not just the touch.
Not just the words.
But the certainty—cold, unshakable—that the heiress wasn't done.
One week.
Rowan exhaled slowly.
She'd be ready.
And when Isadora Ravencroft walked through those hospital doors tomorrow?
Rowan would be the one who didn't flinch.
Not again.
The hallway light was low, just the entry lamp glowing warm. Clara had already gone to bed—her bedroom door closed upstairs—but a familiar figure waited at the bottom of the stairs.
Noah Blackwood—fourteen, lanky, still growing into his height—sat on the third step in sweatpants and a faded hoodie, phone in hand, screen lighting his face. He looked up the second the door shut.
"Hey," he said, jumping up with that easy teenage energy that made Rowan feel ancient. "I was waiting for you, Ro."
He crossed the hall in three quick strides, leaned in, and kissed her cheek—quick, casual, the way he'd done since he was small enough to reach only if she bent down.
Rowan managed a small, automatic smile. "You should be asleep. School tomorrow."
Noah shrugged, shoving his phone into his pocket. "Couldn't. Mom said you were at some fancy party. You look…" He studied her—really looked—brow furrowing. "Tensed. Like, really tensed. What happened?"
Rowan straightened, smoothing her dress with hands that still trembled faintly. She forced her voice light, casual—the same tone she used on patients who asked too many questions.
"No," she lied smoothly. "Just a long night. Too many people. Too much champagne I didn't drink. I'm fine."
Noah's eyes narrowed—sharp, perceptive, the same hazel as hers but younger, less guarded.
"Bullshit," he said bluntly. "You've got that look. The one you get after a bad trauma shift when someone dies and you pretend it doesn't hit you. Or after Mom asks about dating again and you shut down. What's going on?"
Rowan exhaled—slow, controlled. She reached out, ruffled his hair the way she always did when she wanted to deflect.
"Nothing, menace. Just tired. Go to bed."
Noah didn't move. He crossed his arms, mimicking her posture without realizing it.
"You came home in that dress looking like you could murder someone. And your cheeks are still red. Did someone hit on you? Or… worse?"
Rowan's laugh was short, brittle. "Worse would be easier."
Noah's expression softened—concern replacing suspicion. He stepped closer, voice dropping.
"Ro. Talk to me. I'm not a kid anymore. Whatever it is… you don't have to carry it alone."
For a second—just one—she almost told him. Almost said the words: *A seventeen-year-old billionaire heiress pinned me on a dance floor, whispered filthy things in my ear, and made my body react even though I hate her. And now she can come to my hospital every day for therapy. And I don't know how to stop thinking about it.*
Instead she shook her head, forced another smile—this one softer, more real.
"I'm okay," she said. "Promise. Just need a shower and sleep. You should too."
Noah studied her a long moment—searching her face like he could read the lie if he stared hard enough. Then he sighed, shoulders dropping.
"Fine. But if you need to talk… I'm here. Even at 2 a.m. Even if it's about gross rich people drama."
Rowan's chest tightened—affection, guilt, exhaustion all at once.
She pulled him into a quick hug—fierce, brief—then kissed the top of his head.
"Go to bed, Noah."
He grumbled but turned toward the stairs.
Halfway up, he paused, looked back.
"You look beautiful, by the way. Even if you're lying to me."
Rowan rolled her eyes—genuine this time.
"Flattery won't get you out of curfew."
He grinned—small, worried, but real—then disappeared upstairs.
Rowan stood alone in the hallway.
She pressed her back to the door again, closed her eyes.
The lie sat heavy in her chest.
But she couldn't tell him.
Couldn't tell anyone.
Not yet.
Because admitting it out loud would make it real:
Isadora Ravencroft wasn't just a moment.
She was already under Rowan's skin.
And tomorrow—when the first session started—Rowan would have to face her.
Professional.
Detached.
Unshaken.
She pushed off the door, headed upstairs to shower, to wash away the scent of whiskey and expensive perfume and the ghost of Isadora's touch.
But some things didn't wash off so easily.
And Rowan knew—deep down, in the quiet part she refused to name—that the week ahead would test every boundary she'd ever built.
And maybe—just maybe—break a few.
The next morning came too soon—gray winter light filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Isadora's suite, turning the black silk sheets silver. She woke at 6:45 a.m. sharp, no alarm, just the internal clock that had kept her alive through too many late nights and early crashes. She didn't linger in bed. She rose, showered scalding hot, scrubbed away the last traces of last night's whiskey and perfume and the phantom press of Rowan's body against hers.
She dressed like she was going to war.
Brown tailored blazer—sharp peaked lapels, single-breasted, cut to hug her athletic frame without clinging. Crisp black button-down shirt underneath, top two buttons undone just enough to show the hollow of her throat and the faint chain of a thin gold necklace. Matching brown trousers—slim, high-waisted, falling perfectly over polished oxfords in deep cognac leather. A slim gold watch on her left wrist—vintage Patek Philippe, understated, expensive. Hair pulled back into a low, sleek ponytail that still managed to look defiant, a few strands escaping to frame her face. Minimal makeup: winged liner sharp enough to cut, nude lip, nothing to soften the hard edges.
She looked formal. Controlled. Untouchable.
Exactly the opposite of the reckless heiress everyone expected.
She descended the floating staircase at 7:42 a.m.—oxfords clicking soft on marble, posture straight as a blade. The main living level was quiet; the party detritus long cleared. Only Everett waited, seated at the long dining table with coffee and the morning financials spread before him. He didn't look up immediately. He never did when he wanted to make someone wait.
Isadora stopped at the foot of the stairs, hands loose at her sides.
Everett finally lifted his gaze—slow, assessing. His eyes traced her outfit: the blazer, the brown tones, the watch glinting under recessed lights. Something almost like approval flickered in his expression before it vanished.
"Security will be with you," he said. No greeting. No questions. Just fact.
Two operatives already stood near the private elevator—Grayson and a younger one she didn't recognize. Black suits, earpieces, faces blank.
Isadora nodded once—short, sharp.
"Understood."
She simply walked past the table toward the elevator, oxfords echoing in the hush.
Everett watched her go.
At the elevator doors she paused—just long enough to glance back over her shoulder.
"I'll be at Bellevue by nine," she said quietly. "Daily. As agreed. You'll get the reports. You'll see the screens. And when it's done… I'll still be here."
Everett tapped his cane once against the floor—soft, final.
"See that you are."
The doors slid open.
Isadora stepped inside.
The guards followed—silent shadows.
As the elevator descended, she stared at her reflection in the polished metal doors: blazer sharp, shirt crisp, eyes dark and focused.
One week.
First session.
Rowan Blackwood waiting on the other side—professional, detached, hating her.
Isadora's lips curved—just a fraction.
Good.
She wanted the hate.
It was the only thing sharp enough to cut through her own.
The elevator dinged.
Ground floor.
She stepped out—guards flanking her, city waiting beyond the lobby doors.
And somewhere across Manhattan, in a hospital she funded but didn't own, Rowan Blackwood was already at her desk.
Preparing for the day.
Preparing for the patient who had promised to make her feel everything she swore she never would.
The game was on.
And Isadora Ravencroft had dressed for battle.
Bellevue Hospital's attending lounge smelled like burnt coffee and antiseptic at 8:17 a.m. Rowan sat at the narrow table near the window, white coat buttoned over fresh navy scrubs, hair already pulled into its severe low bun. Charts open in front of her, pen moving in precise strokes, she looked every inch the composed professional—except for the faint shadows under her eyes and the way her fingers gripped the pen a fraction too tightly.
Sara and Emma had cornered her the second she walked in from morning rounds. Sara leaned against the counter with a fresh coffee in hand, curls still damp from her shower; Emma perched on the edge of the table, legs swinging, already halfway through a protein bar.
"You're doing the thing again," Sara said, tilting her head. "The 'I'm fine, nothing happened, don't ask' face. It's cute, but we're not buying it."
Rowan didn't look up. "I'm charting. Some of us have actual work."
Emma snorted. "Charting. Right. Because staring at the same discharge summary for three minutes straight is super productive."
Sara set her coffee down and slid into the chair opposite Rowan, elbows on the table, grin slow and teasing.
"Come on, Ro. Let us help. You've been quiet since we dropped you last night. Still replaying that dance-floor dry-hump in your head?"
Rowan's pen stopped. She exhaled through her nose—sharp, controlled.
"It was a waltz," she said flatly. "Not a dry-hump. And it's over."
Sara raised an eyebrow. "Was it? Because the way she had her hand on your waist looked like she was two seconds from hiking that slit up and—"
"Stop." Rowan finally looked up, hazel eyes flat. "I'm not thinking about it. I'm not thinking about her. She's a patient who signed out AMA. End of story."
Emma leaned forward, voice dropping to mock-serious. "Patient who signed out AMA and then showed up at your fancy donor party, pinned you on the dance floor, whispered dirty things in your ear, and made you blush so hard we thought your face was gonna combust. That patient?"
Rowan's jaw tightened. "She's seventeen. Entitled. Manipulative. And she's never coming back here. She'll run the second she can. Rich kids like her don't do follow-through."