Chapter 12 - The New OrderSix months later, the private Crosswell clinic looked entirely different.
The sterile white walls had been upgraded with high-grade ballistic glass, and the underground garage now featured a biometric security grid that made Pentagon installations look like a sliding screen door.
I stood at the nurses' station in my crisp green scrubs and white sneakers, reviewing a patient chart. My hair was still pinned back. No perfume. No jewelry.
Except for the heavy, platinum-and-diamond vintage watch resting on my left wrist—a gift left on my desk three months ago with a simple note: For the hours you save.
The heavy double doors of the trauma wing slid open.
A tall man in a tailored charcoal suit walked in, carrying a slight limp from an old shoulder wound that had long since healed. Behind him, Miller kept a respectful ten-pace distance, scanning the corridor.
Damian stopped at the edge of the desk, leaning his weight slightly against the counter, looking down at me with those familiar, intense dark eyes.
"You're pacing," I noted without looking up from my tablet.
"I'm not pacing," Damian corrected smoothly. "I'm supervising."
"You supervise my emergency ward every single Tuesday at noon," I replied, finally looking up and raising an eyebrow. "Don't you have a skyline to buy or a shipping conglomerate to run?"
"The shipping conglomerate runs itself," Damian murmured, his voice dropping into that low, hypnotic register that still made a quiet heat crawl up my neck. "The only thing in Boston that requires my personal attention is right here."
I set the tablet down on the counter, crossing my arms. "Mercer’s syndicate has been dismantled, the feds have the ledger, and my brother is serving twenty years in a federal penitentiary in Vermont. What else could possibly require your attention, Mr. Cross?"
Damian reached across the counter, his large, warm fingers gently catching my chin, tilting my face upward so I had no choice but to look into his eyes.
"Dinner," he said simply.
"We ate dinner together last night."
"That was a business summit with the mayor." Damian’s thumb brushed lightly across my jawline. "Tonight is not business. And I expect you to wear something red."
I let out a soft laugh, shaking my head. "You have a dangerous obsession with that color, Damian."
"I have an obsession with the woman who wears it," he corrected quietly, his gaze locking onto mine with fierce, undeniable intensity. "And unlike my enemies, Elizabeth, I always get what I want."
He leaned down, pressing a warm, lingering kiss to my forehead before turning on his heel and walking toward the private elevator.
I stood at the nurses' station, a small smile pulling at the corners of my lips as I tapped my watch against the desk.
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Some women spend their lives running away from monsters.
Me? I stitched mine back together, stepped into a crimson dress, and ended up owning the entire city by his side.
