Chapter 1
By nine-thirteen on Monday morning, I had already been called a government spy, “honey” six times, the enemy of neurological freedom, and, most concerningly, “the woman who stole Darren’s emotional support ferret.”
I had not stolen anyone’s ferret.
I had calmly told him that he couldn't bring a possibly rabid and lice-infested animal into a medical facility over and over.
I was also ninety per cent sure that Darren did not legally own that ferret.
But steal him?
I wasn't that hysterical yet.
“Harper and Son Behavioural Specialists, this is Felicity speaking,” I said for what felt like the nine hundredth time that morning, cradling the phone between my shoulder and ear while simultaneously trying to stop the office printer from making a noise that suggested imminent combustion. “How can I help you today?”
“I got a text saying I missed my appointment.”
I clicked through the patient system. “Okay, let me just check for you. Can I grab your name?”
“Lyle Dugent.”
There were no Lyle Dugents in our system.
“Are you sure you have the right clinic?” I asked, patient as ever. “I can’t seem to find you “
“Oh, shit. It's for my step-son.”
“Okay. What is his first and last name?”
“Ethan. I don't know how to spell the last name. It's foreign.”
“That’s okay.” I said, already clicking through all the possible Ethan’s.
“My wife usually does this part. I'm really trying to help her out because she is sick at the moment. I'm already screwing this up though, aren’t I?”
I smiled despite myself. “You are doing fine. Can you sound it out for me?”
A crash sounded somewhere behind me.
Not metaphorical.
An actual crash.
I looked up just in time to see one of the waiting room children launching himself bodily off a chair while his exhausted mother mouthed sorry at the reception desk.
“It starts with a G,” Lyle announced confidently.
“Wonderful.”
“Or maybe a J.”
Perfect.
The printer made another tortured grinding noise before spitting paper dramatically across the floor like it had finally given up on life.
Across the reception, my co-worker in chaos stared at it.
“It’s sentient now,” Priya whispered.
“I know.”
“I think it hates us.”
“It definitely hates us.”
“Should we unplug it?”
“We tried that last week. It came back angrier.”
A little girl crawled underneath my desk.
“Hi, Sophie,” I said, still on the phone.
“Your fish is sad.”
I glanced at the tank beside my monitor.
The clinic fish did admittedly look emotionally devastated, probably because I was the only one who ever remembered to feed it.
“That’s just his face.” I said diplomatically.
“He needs a castle.”
“That’s fair.”
“Are you listening to me?” Lyle asked down the line.
“Yes, sorry. G or J surname?”
“I think maybe neither.” He paused and then gasped dramatically. “Oh fuck. Is this the clinic on Broadmeadow avenue? I might have the wrong place.”
“Are you sure the appointment isn't for you, sir?”
“What are you implying?”
I rubbed my temple.
Harper and Son Behavioural Specialists occupied the entire second floor of a faded medical building wedged between a podiatrist and a dentist nobody trusted. The clinic itself was permanently loud, chronically overbooked, and operated with the frantic energy of a fast food playground five minutes before closing.
Half the patients forgot appointments.
The other half arrived on the wrong day.
Some arrived six hours early and refused to leave.
One memorable man had attended an assessment at the veterinary clinic downstairs and somehow not noticed.
I handled all of it with the numb endurance of a war veteran because I needed the money and this place paid well.
Also I genuinely enjoyed helping the patients - even the children who regularly scuffed the walls and treated the waiting room like a some sort of parkour course.
It usually involved lots of coffee though.
Today I hadn’t even managed the coffee because the machine was out of pods and no one had restocked the break room.
Which explained why I briefly considered lying down on the reception floor and letting the printer take me.
“Felix ate his own poop,” another child announced loudly from the waiting room.
A horrified silence followed.
The mother looked moments from spiritual collapse.
“She means our cat.” She said hastily.
“It was yesterday,” the child clarified.
The entire room exhaled.
“Okay,” I said gently. “That’s less alarming.”
“I pooped glitter.” Sophie announced, still wedged under my desk.
“Excellent.”
“Please stop telling strangers that,” her mother begged.
Too late.
Priya was already typing pooped glitter into the clinic group chat.
My computer pinged immediately.
PRIYA: New band name.
I snorted.
“Miss Moore?”
I looked up.
Dr Everett Harper stood outside his office, one hand braced against the doorframe.
Even from across the clinic, he looked exhausted.
Not normal Monday exhausted.
Something deeper.
His silver hair was messier than usual, tie crooked, his skin pale beneath the fluorescent lights.
He was still impeccably dressed, of course. Dr Harper dressed like a man who believed wrinkles in clothing were a personal moral failure.
But lately he looked thinner.
Older.
“Have you seen my son?”
I shook my head at the brisk question. “Not since I arrived.”
Everett’s frown deepened.
I knew if the children weren't present in the room, there would be some rather creative language aimed my way.
“Fine.” He exhaled. “Can I see you for a moment then?”
I straightened instinctively. “Of course.”
I turned and addressed Lyle. “I'm so sorry sir. I just need to transfer you to another receptionist.”
“But -.”
“Why don’t you try to find that text in the meantime? It will have your step-son’s last name on it and confirm if you have the right clinic.”
I muted my headset before a flustered Lyle could complain and then glanced at Priya. “Can you take this call and survive alone for two minutes?”
She looked toward the waiting room where two teenage brothers were sword fighting with rolled-up appointment reminders. “No.”
I was already out of my chair. “Great. Good luck.”
“You’re abandoning me.”
“You’re strong.”
“I’m delicate.”
“You once threatened a man with a laminator.”
“He deserved it.”
Fair.
The man had clearly been high and convinced we were trying to give him a rectal exam when we were simply trying to take his temperature.
I slipped behind the reception desk and crossed the clinic.
As I passed the hallway, one of the consult room doors burst open.
And in walked Tristan Harper.
Unfortunately the man looked unfairly good for someone who consistently behaved like an arrogant asshole to society.
Tall.
Dark hair slightly too long.
Expensive coat.
He had a coffee in hand - obviously not one from the clinic, instead some sort of ambomination from the local organic cafe - and a suspicious smear of red lipstick on his collar.
Not to mention the kind of face that belonged in cologne advertisements or court-ordered anger management... depending on the time of the day.
He moved through the clinic like he owned oxygen itself.
Which, technically, one day he probably would.
I glanced past him into the open treatment room and saw a willowly blonde buttoning up her shirt and straightening her messy hair before slipping out of the opposite door.
She wasn't a patient.
Even Tristan had better morals than that.
But she was obviously the reason Everett hadn't been able to find his son.
“Morning Doctor Harper,” Priya called, overly loud and peppy.
“Is it?” Tristan replied.
His gaze skimmed straight over me.
Not even a pause.
Nothing.
Which was irritating.
Not because I cared.
Obviously.
But because I had worked here for nearly two years and the man still looked at me with the vague recognition people reserved for self-checkout machines.
“Your father’s looking for you,” I said as he passed.
Tristan finally glanced toward me.
Those dark eyes flicked briefly over my oversized cardigan, mousy brown bun, and my lanyard covered in tiny cartoon brains.
Then away again.
“Sounds ominous.”
“You say that every time.”
“Because every conversation with him is ominous.”
I cast an irritated look to the waiting room. “You have patients waiting. Again.”
“I always have patients waiting. Isn't it your job to manage all of that?”
“I can only manage so much while you take your sweet time deciding if you actually want to do any work today.”
“Relax, Francesca. Life is too short to be pissy.”
“I'm not pissy. And my name isn't -.”
He didn't even acknowledge my comment.
He just adjusted his coat and then he was gone before I could even finish my sentence.
He just breezed straight past me toward reception without another thought.
“My name is Felicity.” I ended lamely, immediately angry that he had gotten the last word.
Again.
I stared after him.
Tristan Harper wasn't just arrogant. He was rude.
Very attractive.
But a fucking asshole.
Priya appeared beside me silently.
“He’s like if burnout became a model.” She mock-whispered.
I choked on a laugh. “That’s weirdly accurate.”
“I could fix him.”
“You say that about every emotionally unavailable man who comes in here.”
“I’m an optimist.”
“You dated an addict who stole your air fryer.”
“He was going through something.”
“He pawned your air fryer for drugs, Priya.”
“He had layers. Besides I found my soul mate in the dashing, handsome policeman who came to fingerprint my kitchen counter. Ryan is my match and plus he can arrest anyone who pisses me off. So it wasn't a complete loss.”
I shook my head, smiling despite myself, before knocking lightly on Doctor Harper’s office door.
“Come in.”
The office smelled faintly like hand sanitiser and old books.
Doctor Harper sat heavily behind his desk, loosening his tie with visible fatigue.
Unlike his son, I loved Everett Harper.
He was fair, considerate and gave way too much time of his time and energy to the clinic he had started over twenty years ago.
But something about him today was...off.
For a moment, his professional mask slipped entirely.
He looked tired.
Not clinic tired.
Not overworked tired.
Just… tired.
And oddly focused on my entrance as I stepped closer to his desk.
He rubbed his head and winced.
I had a flash of panic that he was about to fire me.
Or announce that he was finally closing the clinic because it was too much to handle.
Both of those things spelled disaster for my immediate future.
“You wanted to see me?” I said cheerily, manifesting anything except my impending doom if I was about to be out of a steady paycheck.
“Yes.” His voice sounded distracted. “Close the door, please.”
Something uneasy curled in my stomach. “Is everything alright?”
He nodded briskly. “It's fine. We just need privacy for this conversation.”
Outside, I could still hear the muffled chaos of reception.
A child yelling.
The steady calm of Tristan finally guiding a patient to his treatment room.
Phones ringing.
Someone—possibly Priya—saying, “Sir, you cannot vape in the waiting room.”
Doctor Harper folded his hands slowly.
Then studied me in silence long enough to make me uncomfortable.
In all the times I had been called into his office he had never once asked me to close the door.
“You’ve worked here nearly two years now.” He finally announced after the hallway disappeared behind me.
I blinked.
Oh god. Was I actually getting let go?
“Yes.” I said quietly.
“And in that time, I’ve never once seen you lose your patience with a patient.”
That sounded good, even if it wasn't exactly true.
“That’s because legally I can’t.” I clarified.
A faint smile tugged at his mouth. “You feed Ted.”
I blinked again. “Who?”
“The goldfish.”
“Oh. The fish! His name is Garry.”
“It used to be Ted.” Everett swiped a hand through his thinning hair. “Tristan insisted on getting it. Then he was too busy fucking around to ensure it was taken care of.”
I shuffled on my feet, not used to hearing my boss swear.
“I'm sorry.” Everett smiled kindly. “I shouldn't use that language in front of a lady.”
“I'm anything but a lady, sir.” I insisted. “You can say fuck.”
His smile shifted into something like amusement. “Please sit.”
I did, smoothing my sweating hands over my long woollen skirt.
“You’re kind, Miss Moore. You have a good soul. I can see it.” Everett continued.
That caught me off guard. Maybe I wasn't getting fired after all.
“Thank you.”
“You care about people.”
“I try to.”
“And my son barely notices when the building is on fire.”
Ah.
There it was.
The Tristan Harper Complaint Hour.
A clinic tradition, but not one usually done in private like this.
I shifted awkwardly in my chair.
Everett leaned back slowly, weariness etched into every line of his face. “I have a proposition for you, Felicity Moore.”
