Chapter 1
Isa POV
I stand on the hospital roof, the New York city spread out beneath me like a restless heartbeat. The cool spring air bites at my skin, sharp and clean, a reminder that I’m only halfway through this endless shift, twelve hours down, twelve more to go. My lungs ache with every breath, but I savor it anyway. Up here, away from the fluorescent lights and the constant beeping of monitors, I can almost pretend I’m free.
“Here you are, Isa.” Connor’s voice cuts through the quiet, and I sigh, the fragile peace shattering. I don’t have the patience for him tonight. Not for his easy charm, not for the way he always assumes I’ll be glad to see him.
He closes the distance before I can move, arms sliding around my waist, pulling me back against him. His lips brush the curve of my neck, warm against the chill air. Most women would melt at this kind of attention, but to me it feels hollow, vanilla, predictable. There’s no fire in it, no spark that makes my pulse race.
“I miss you,” he murmurs, the words soft, almost pleading.
But they barely register. His voice is just another sound layered over the hum of the city below. We’ve been tangled together for months now, a casual arrangement that once felt like escape but has begun to feel like a weight. Somewhere along the way, I started pulling back, step by step, breath by breath, until the distance between us feels wider than the rooftop we’re standing on.
Connor doesn’t notice. Or maybe he does, and he’s too stubborn to admit it. His arms tighten around me as if he can anchor me here, as if he can keep me from slipping away. But the truth is, I’m already gone.
Our first night together had been wildfire, reckless, consuming, impossible to forget. Every touch had sparked, every kiss had burned, and when it was over my body ached in ways that felt almost sacred, a delicious reminder of how alive I had been in his arms. For days afterward, I carried that ache like a secret, replaying the memory as if it were proof of something rare, something worth holding onto.
But it turned out to be nothing more than a fleeting blaze. The next time we were together, the fire was gone. What had once been raw and intoxicating was suddenly muted, stripped of urgency. His hands felt routine, his kisses mechanical, as though he were following steps in a script rather than reaching for me. The passion that had once left me trembling was replaced by a hollow rhythm, and I found myself drifting, detached, waiting for it to end.
I faked an orgasm, the sound of my own voice foreign in my ears, a performance I hated myself for even as I gave it. He smiled afterward, satisfied, unaware of the emptiness that had settled between us. And in that moment, I knew the truth: whatever spark we had shared that first night had burned itself out, leaving only ashes.
“After our shift is over, do you want to come back to my place?” Connor’s voice is casual, almost hopeful, as though the invitation is nothing more than routine.
The words hang in the cool air, heavy and unwelcome. I force a smile I don’t feel, but inside, the thought of his body pressing down on mine makes my stomach twist. What once felt thrilling now feels suffocating, a performance I can no longer bring myself to play.
I glance at him, at the easy grin he wears, oblivious to the distance growing between us. He thinks he’s offering comfort, intimacy, but all I feel is dread. The idea of peeling off my scrubs only to lie beneath him, pretending again, makes me want to recoil.
“Not tonight, Connor,” I say, my voice sharper than I intend. The words hang between us, heavy in the cool night air.
“I’ve worked almost seventy hours this week,” I add, softer now, exhaustion bleeding through every syllable. “All I want is to rest.”
The lie tastes bitter on my tongue. The truth is much darker; I want to be fucked.. hard. Pinned against a wall or bent over a couch anything other than missionary position that Connor loves.
Connor’s expression flickers, surprise giving way to something unreadable. He opens his mouth as if to argue, then closes it again, his jaw tightening. For a moment, I almost feel guilty, but the weight pressing down on me is too much. I can’t carry his expectations on top of everything else.
My pager shrieks against the quiet, like glass shattering. Duty calls, and there’s no room for hesitation. Without another word, I turn and leave Connor standing alone on the roof, his shadow swallowed by the city as I head back down into the fluorescent chaos of the ED.
The air inside is thick with urgency, voices overlapping, monitors beeping, the steady rhythm of controlled panic that never truly fades. Jessie intercepts me at the nurses’ station, her expression tight, a file already in hand.
“Twenty-year-old female, severe abdominal pain,” she says, brisk and efficient.
I nod, the weight of exhaustion pushed aside by the familiar surge of focus. The file is cool in my hands, but the reality behind it is already burning, someone young, someone hurting, waiting for me to make sense of the pain.
I weave through the crowded ward until I reach her. She’s curled on the gurney, body taut with agony, her face pale and slick with sweat. Every movement is a wince, every breath a battle.
“Hi,” I say gently, pulling a chair closer so I’m level with her. “I’m Doctor Isa Costello.” My voice softens, steady, meant to anchor her in the storm. “I’m here to help. Can you tell me when the pain started?”
Her eyes flicker toward mine, desperate, searching for reassurance. And as I begin to take her history, I feel the shift, the world narrowing down to just her, her pain, and my responsibility to find the truth hidden inside it.
Finally, my shift is over. The weight of seventy hours clings to my bones, and I step out of the hospital into the night. The sky is heavy and dark, but the city refuses to sleep—its lights glitter and pulse, reflections dancing across wet pavement like restless spirits. For a moment, I breathe in the cool air, savoring the fragile illusion of freedom.
Then I see it.
A slick black town car idles in the tow-away zone, polished to a mirror sheen under the streetlamps. My chest tightens, the breath I’d just taken freezing inside me. I know that car. I know what it means.
I stop dead, every muscle taut. “Not today,” I snap, my voice sharp enough to cut through the hum of traffic.
One of my father’s men steps forward, his suit immaculate, his expression unreadable. “Your father insists, Isadora,” he says, tone clipped, rehearsed, as if the words are nothing more than orders passed down.
Anger flares hot in my veins, burning away the exhaustion. “He can go fuck himself,” I bite back, the venom in my voice surprising even me.
The man doesn’t flinch. He simply waits, patient and immovable, like a shadow sent to remind me that no matter how far I run, my father’s reach is longer. The city lights blur around us, and for a heartbeat, I feel trapped, caught between the life I’ve built and the one I can never quite escape.
“Please, just get in the car,” he says, the words coated in forced politeness. His tone is calm, almost gentle, but I can hear the strain beneath it, the fraying edge of patience he’s trying desperately to conceal.
He knows better than to raise his voice at me. Every man in my father’s employ knows the rule: disrespect me, and it’s not just your job you lose, it’s your life. My father doesn’t tolerate insolence, not toward him and certainly not toward his daughter. One wrong word, one slip of temper, and this man would be dead before sunrise.
And yet, the danger cuts both ways. If I refuse to get in that car, if I push too far, his fate may already be sealed. My father doesn’t forgive failure. He doesn’t care about excuses. To him, loyalty is measured in obedience, and obedience is measured in results.
The man’s eyes flicker, betraying the fear he’s trying to mask. He’s caught in the impossible space between my defiance and my father’s wrath, a pawn in a game neither of us can win. I feel the weight of it pressing down on me, the knowledge that my choices tonight might decide whether he lives or dies.
The city hums around us, indifferent, neon lights reflecting off the sleek black car like a warning. My pulse hammers in my ears. I want to walk away, to reclaim the freedom my mother fought for, but the shadow of my father stretches long, and it’s waiting for me inside that car.
“Fine,” I snap, my exhaustion has stripped away any patience I might have had. “But I need food first before I meet with Satan.” The venom in my tone makes the driver’s eyes flicker toward me in the rearview mirror, though he wisely says nothing.
The car door closes with a heavy thud, sealing me inside the leather-scented quiet. The city lights smear across the tinted glass as we pull away from the curb, neon bleeding into shadow. My stomach growls, a reminder that I’ve been running on caffeine and adrenaline for far too long.
I lean forward slightly, studying the man behind the wheel. His posture is rigid, professional, the kind of discipline drilled into all of my father’s men. Still, I want to know who’s been sent to babysit me tonight.
“What’s your name?” I ask, my voice low, deliberate.
“Matt,” he responds after a beat, clipped and cautious, as though even his own name might betray him.
Matt speaks in hushed tones into his phone, his words clipped, careful, as though every syllable carries weight. I can’t make out the details, but the way his jaw tightens tells me enough. Orders. Adjustments. My father’s shadow reaching through the line.
Without warning, he turns the car around, the city lights blurring past the windows as we head in the opposite direction. Minutes later, we stop in front of Ember & Ash, one of the most prestigious fine dining restaurants in the city. Its glass façade gleams like a jewel, the kind of place where power is displayed as much as it is consumed.
Matt steps out quickly, opening my door with the precision of a man who knows his life depends on it. “The table is under Costello,” he says evenly. “Your father will be here in fifteen minutes.”
I nod, forcing a thin smile. “Thanks, Matt.” My voice is flat, but polite enough to keep him safe.
Inside, the restaurant is a cathedral of wealth, crystal chandeliers dripping light, polished marble floors reflecting every step, the air perfumed with truffle and wine. I’m painfully aware of my scrubs, my sneakers, the exhaustion etched into my face. I am totally underdressed for this place, but I don’t care. Hunger outweighs couture, and right now survival feels more important than appearances.
At the host stand, I give my name. “Costello.”
The hostess freezes, realization hitting her like a slap. Her smile falters, replaced by a nervous efficiency. She doesn’t ask questions. She doesn’t dare. Instead, she leads me swiftly past the main dining hall, through a corridor lined with velvet drapes, until we reach a private room tucked away from curious eyes.
She hands me a menu, her hands trembling just slightly, and I catch the flicker of unease in her gaze. She knows who my father is. She knows what the name Costello means in this city.
I flick through the menu, each page dripping with pretension: foie gras, truffle risotto, caviar towers. It’s all delicate, curated, designed to impress. But all I want is something simple, primal: a big, juicy steak.
“Can I get a steak?” I ask, closing the menu with a snap. The hostess hesitates, then nods, understanding immediately that it’s not listed but that my request will be granted anyway. The Costello name carries weight here, enough to bend rules without question.
“And a bottle of your most expensive rosé,” I add, leaning back in my chair. I know it doesn’t pair, that the sommeliers would cringe, but I don’t care. My father is footing the bill, and if I’m going to endure this charade, I might as well indulge.
The hostess offers a tight smile, scribbles the order, and disappears. I’m left alone in the private dining room, the silence pressing in, the promise of food a small comfort against the storm I know is coming.
