Chapter 1 - The Trap of Blood and White TileThe sterile scent of rubbing alcohol usually grounded Bianca Carter. It was a familiar, anchoring smell that separated the realm of the living from the cold corridors of the morgue. But today, the clinical smell was thoroughly corrupted by the expensive, cedar-and-smoke cologne of Tristan Bellamy.
His words hung in the sterile air of Room 402 like a veiled threat wrapped in silk.
“I guess this time, you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.”
Eleanor Bellamy, oblivious to the high-voltage tension snapping between her son and her nurse, patted the edge of the mattress. "Tristan, don't just stand there like a sentinel guarding a tomb. Come say hello to Bianca. She’s the only one on this floor who doesn't treat me like a piece of fragile antique porcelain."
Tristan’s gaze didn’t break away from Bianca. It felt less like a look and more like a physical weight, pressing against her collarbone, cataloging every micro-expression of panic flickering across her face.
"Mother," Tristan said, his voice a low, resonant baritone that vibrated through the floorboards. "I would never dream of treating anyone in this room like porcelain. Especially not someone with Ms. Carter's... unique talent for finding her way into places she shouldn't be."
Bianca felt a bead of cold sweat track down her spine, hiding safely beneath the collar of her crisp white scrubs. He knows. Of course he knew. Men like Tristan Bellamy didn't forget faces—especially the face of a sleep-deprived nurse who had invaded his personal sanctuary, used his custom-stitched leather seat as a pillow, and then bolted like a startled rabbit into the Manhattan fog.
"I'll check your IV drip, Mrs. Bellamy," Bianca managed, her voice holding a professional steady note that required every ounce of her emergency-room-honed discipline. She kept her eyes glued to the plastic line tracking saline into Eleanor's thin wrist. "The flow rate looks stable. If you need anything before my shift ends, call the desk."
"Nonsense," Eleanor protested, waving a frail hand. "Tristan just got here. Stay, chat! He never visits unless his father’s ghost is haunting him, which is practically never."
Tristan stepped further into the room. The automatic door hissed shut, sealing them inside. The click of his leather-soled shoes against the linoleum floor sounded like a countdown timer.
He didn't look at his mother when he spoke. "I'm sure Ms. Carter has a very busy schedule. People’s lives depend on her. Or, at least, they're supposed to."
The subtle jab landed squarely on target. Bianca’s jaw tightened. She looked up, unable to maintain her polite evasion any longer. Her dark brown eyes met his pitch-black stare. There was no warmth in them, only an intense, calculating curiosity—the look a apex predator gives an animal that has wandered into its den twice in one week.
"Lives do depend on me, Mr. Bellamy," Bianca said, her voice dropping an octave, losing its sugar-coated nurse cadence. "Which is why I prefer to pay attention to where I'm going. Mistakes usually happen when people are overworked. Or when they're trapped in cars that don't belong to them."
Eleanor blinked, her blue eyes darting between them. "Cars? What are you two talking about? Have you met before?"
"We share an acquaintance with the New York traffic system, Mother," Tristan replied smoothly, never breaking eye contact with Bianca. A dangerous, ghost-like smirk played at the edge of his mouth. "Ms. Carter has a habit of... dropping in unannounced."
"Well, I'll leave you to catch up," Bianca said, gathering her clipboard with hands that only trembled slightly. "Have a good morning, Mrs. Bellamy."
She turned on her heel and practically flew out of the room, the heavy wooden door swinging shut behind her.
She didn't stop walking until she reached the nurse's station, slamming her clipboard onto the counter with a force that made the charge nurse jump.
"Whoa, Bianca. Patient code blue or just a rough morning?" Sarah, her coworker, asked, peering over her glasses.
"Worse," Bianca hissed, grabbing a stress ball from the desk and squeezing it until her knuckles turned white. "The patient in 402. Eleanor Bellamy."
"Oh, the VIP wing donor? Her family owns half of downtown real estate and half of the import-export docks. Why? Is she difficult?"
"No. Not her." Bianca pressed her palms against her eyes, groaning softly. "Her son."
"Tristan Bellamy?" Sarah gasped, a sudden flush of excitement hitting her cheeks. "You met Tristan Bellamy? Girl, do you know what he looks like? He’s like a romance novel villain who actually murders people in real life. Super rich, completely untouchable, and lethal. Why, did he yell at you?"
"He didn't yell." Bianca dropped her hands, her heart still hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. "He recognized me."
"From what?"
"From three nights ago. When I climbed into his black SUV, fell asleep on his shoulder, and ran away like a lunatic."
Sarah stared at her for three full seconds before letting out a shriek of laughter that earned her a sharp glare from the head doctor walking past. "You did what?!"
"Keep your voice down!" Bianca hissed, grabbing Sarah by the sleeve of her scrubs. "You don't understand. Men like that—they don't just let things go. He looked at me like I was a puzzle he hadn't finished solving yet."
"Well," Sarah said, adjusting her stethoscope with a grin. "At least your love life—or your accidental crime life—is more interesting than mine. Just stay out of his car, and you'll be fine."
That evening, as Bianca walked out of St. Catherine’s through the south entrance, the city was draped in a heavy, suffocating sheet of autumn rain. The streetlights flickered through the gray haze, casting long, warped shadows across the pavement.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket. A notification from her rideshare app: Your driver has arrived. Black SUV.
Bianca froze dead in her tracks.
May you like
Parked right by the curb, idling with its high beams cutting through the downpour, was a sleek, pitch-black Maybach SUV. The rear window rolled down half an inch. A gloved hand rested on the door frame, and a familiar, deep voice echoed through the rain-slicked air.
"Get in, Ms. Carter. It’s pouring, and unlike three nights ago, this car actually is yours."
