Corbin stripped off the latex gloves and tossed them into the biohazard bin. "You have a severe urinary tract infection," he said, turning his back to write on a prescription pad. "I'm prescribing a strong course of antibiotics. Get dressed."

He didn't look back as he walked out of the room, the heavy door clicking shut behind him.

Hope scrambled off the table the second he was gone. Her hands were shaking so badly she could barely manage the zipper on her skirt. She threw her clothes on, buttoning her blouse wrong in her frantic rush. She grabbed her purse and bolted out of the examination room like the building was on fire.

She kept her head down as she hurried through the plush lobby, terrified she might lock eyes with that devastatingly handsome doctor again. She pushed through the glass doors and hit the New York pavement.

The crisp autumn wind hit her flushed face. She let out a long, shaky exhale. She reached into her bag to grab her phone to check the time.

Her fingers met empty space.

Hope stopped walking. She dug frantically through the contents of her purse. No phone. And then it hit her-she hadn't grabbed the prescription slip either. They were both sitting on the metal tray next to the examination table.

A fresh wave of pelvic pain radiated through her lower back, a cruel reminder that she couldn't just walk away. Without that prescription, she couldn't get the medicine.

"No, no, no," Hope groaned aloud, pressing the heels of her hands against her eyes.

She turned around and dragged her feet back toward the clinic entrance. The walk of shame felt ten times longer.

She approached the marble reception desk. "Excuse me," Hope said, keeping her voice low. "I left my phone and my prescription in exam room two. Can someone grab them for me?"

The receptionist was typing rapidly, a phone wedged between her ear and shoulder. She pointed a manicured finger down the hallway. "Wait outside the door. A nurse will bring it out."

Hope swallowed her pride and walked back down the quiet corridor. She stopped a few feet away from the partially open door of room two. She wrung her hands together, her stomach twisting with anxiety.

Through the crack in the door, she heard Corbin's deep, resonant voice. He was speaking rapidly, using complex medical jargon to instruct a nurse about a surgical prep.

Hope peeked through the gap. Corbin was leaning over the counter, signing a chart. The harsh clinic lighting caught the sharp angles of his profile. The sheer authority radiating from him made Hope's breath catch in her throat.

The nurse suddenly turned and walked out, nearly colliding with Hope. The nurse, looking surprised to see her waiting, offered a brief, professional smile and held out the items. "You forgot these, Ms. Spence."

"Thank you," Hope whispered, clutching the items.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Corbin lift his head, his icy blue eyes shifting toward the doorway.

Hope spun around and practically sprinted down the hallway, fleeing the building before he could say a word.

Once outside, she tapped her phone screen. It lit up with five missed text messages from her mother, Belva.

You better not be late.

Beatrice worked hard to set this up.

He is a doctor. Don't ruin this.

Where are you?

Answer me!

Hope groaned, rubbing her throbbing temples. The blind date. She had completely forgotten. She looked at the address Beatrice had texted her-a high-end French cafe in Midtown.

She hailed another cab. Traffic was a nightmare. As the taxi crawled down Fifth Avenue, Hope pulled out her compact mirror. She looked awful. Her skin was pale, her eyes were red-rimmed, and her hair was a mess. She tried to smooth it down, but she just looked exhausted.

The cab pulled up to the cafe. Hope paid and stepped out, tugging at the hem of her wrinkled skirt. She took a deep breath, pasting a fake, polite smile on her face, and pushed the door open.

Soft jazz floated through the air. The smell of roasted espresso and warm croissants filled the room. Hope looked around, searching for the man Beatrice had described: Wearing a navy suit, reading a medical journal.

The hostess smiled at her. "Table for two? Name?"

"Spence," Hope said. "I'm meeting someone."

"Right this way."

The hostess led her toward a secluded, velvet-lined booth by the window. Hope walked behind her, her eyes landing on the broad, imposing shoulders of a man sitting in the booth. The navy suit he wore looked incredibly expensive, the fabric stretching perfectly across his back.

Hope mentally rehearsed the polite, generic greeting her mother had drilled into her head. Her feet felt heavy as she approached the table.

Hearing her footsteps, the man closed the medical journal on the table and slowly turned his head.

Hope's fake smile froze. Her lungs stopped working. The blood drained completely from her face.

Sitting across from her was Dr. Corbin Mullen.

His dark hair was slightly tousled. He wasn't wearing the white coat anymore, but the icy blue eyes were exactly the same.

Hope's knees buckled. Her leg slammed into the heavy wooden table leg. The impact rattled the table, causing the silver spoon in the coffee cup to clink loudly. A few people at the next table turned to look.

Her brain short-circuited. Her first instinct was to turn and run out the door, but her feet were glued to the hardwood floor.

Corbin stood up. His height immediately dominated the small space. He extended a large, masculine hand toward her, gesturing to the empty seat opposite him.

Hope stared at his hand. Her mind violently flashed back to thirty minutes ago-that exact hand, wrapped in a cold latex glove, touching the most intimate, vulnerable part of her body. Her stomach violently churned. She felt physically sick.

She didn't take his hand. She collapsed onto the velvet sofa like a puppet with its strings cut, her fingers digging into the strap of her purse with a death grip.

Corbin sat back down slowly. A faint, almost imperceptible smirk touched the corner of his mouth. He leaned back against the velvet cushions, his eyes locking onto her terrified face.

"It seems New York is a very small city, Ms. Spence," Corbin said, his low voice vibrating with dark amusement.

Hope stared at him, her chest rising and falling in shallow, panicked breaths. She reached blindly for the glass of ice water on the table, desperate to wet her dry throat. Her hand was shaking so badly that the glass slipped. Water sloshed over the rim, spilling across the pristine white tablecloth.

Corbin didn't flinch. He reached out with fluid grace, pulling a linen napkin from the dispenser. He handed it to her across the table. As she took it, his warm fingertips brushed against her knuckles.

Hope yanked her hand back as if she had been burned.

She took a deep breath, forcing her racing heart to slow down. Flight wasn't working. She needed to fight. She needed to make him leave. She forced her facial muscles into a wide, painfully fake smile.

She raised her hand and snapped her fingers loudly at a passing waiter. "Excuse me!" she called out, her voice intentionally loud and grating. "Bring me the Beluga caviar and a bottle of your most expensive Champagne. Now."

The waiter blinked, clearly taken aback by her harsh tone. He looked nervously at Corbin.

Corbin merely gave a slight nod, his expression unbothered. He leaned his elbows on the table, crossing his hands under his chin, and watched her with intense, calculating eyes. He looked like a predator watching a mouse run in circles.

Hope cleared her throat, leaning forward and adopting a nasal, materialistic tone. "So, Corbin. Beatrice tells me you're a doctor. Let's skip the small talk. What's your annual take-home? Do you own property, or are you still renting like a peasant?"

Corbin didn't blink. He didn't look offended. Instead, he met her gaze without flinching. "Enough to be comfortable, Ms. Spence. And I prefer to own my own space." His tone was calm, yet carried an undeniable authority that made Hope's provocation feel like a childish joke.

Hope choked. She hadn't expected him to be that wealthy, nor that honest. She grabbed a piece of complimentary bread from the basket and took a massive, unladylike bite to buy time. The dry crust caught in her throat. She started coughing violently, her eyes watering.

Corbin slid his untouched glass of water toward her. His lips twitched into a full smirk now.

"Dysphagia," Corbin said, his voice dropping into that clinical, authoritative tone that made her skin prickle. "Difficulty swallowing. Usually caused by esophageal spasms. Or, in your case, acute anxiety."

He was diagnosing her. At the dinner table.

Hope's face burned a dark, furious red. She slammed the water glass down. "You know, I always thought doctors were incredibly boring," she snapped, dropping the gold-digger act and going straight for insults. "You spend all day looking at sick people. It must ruin your appetite. How do you even stand it?"

Corbin leaned closer. The physical distance between them vanished. His broad chest hovered over the table, his icy blue eyes pinning her to her seat.

"I don't find it boring at all," Corbin said softly, his voice a low rumble that vibrated straight through her chest. "A doctor's job is to explore the deepest, most hidden parts of the human body. To find exactly where it hurts. I find that... fascinating."

The double meaning hit Hope like a physical blow. Her breath hitched. The memory of the examination room crashed over her again-the cold air, the stirrups, his intense focus. A wave of dizziness washed over her. She was completely outmatched. He was playing with her, and she was losing her mind.

The waiter arrived, setting the expensive caviar down between them.

Hope looked at the fish eggs, and her stomach violently rebelled. The pain in her pelvis throbbed in time with her racing pulse. She couldn't breathe. The air in the cafe felt suffocating.

She pushed her chair back so hard it screeched against the floor. "I need to use the restroom," she blurted out, her voice cracking.

Corbin didn't try to stop her. He leaned back in his chair, tilting his head slightly. He gestured toward the back of the cafe with an open palm. His eyes told her he knew exactly what she was doing.

Hope grabbed her purse and practically ran toward the back of the restaurant. She pushed through the restroom door and leaned against the sink, gripping the porcelain edges until her knuckles ached. She stared at her wild, terrified eyes in the mirror.

If she went back out there, she would shatter.

She looked to her left. There was a heavy metal door marked Employees Only.

Hope didn't hesitate. She pushed the bar and slipped into the dim, narrow hallway. She navigated past stacks of cardboard boxes and pushed open the back exit door.

The heavy smell of garbage and stale rain hit her. She was in a dark alleyway. She didn't care. She ran. Her heels splashed into dirty puddles, her breath coming in ragged gasps. She didn't stop running until she was two blocks away, turning the corner onto a busy avenue.

She leaned against a brick wall, her chest heaving, and looked back. No one was following her.

She pulled her phone out of her purse. Her hands were still shaking as she opened the text thread with Beatrice.

Zero chemistry, Hope typed furiously. He is an arrogant jerk. Do not ever give him my number again.

She hit send. Then, she opened her recent calls, found the clinic's automated text confirming her appointment, and extracted Corbin's direct office number.

She tapped Block this Caller.

A prompt popped up. You will not receive phone calls, messages, or FaceTime from people on the block list.

Hope hit Confirm. A rush of vindictive relief flooded her veins. She straightened her spine, took a deep breath of the city air, and walked down the subway stairs. It was over. She had escaped.

Back in the cafe, fifteen minutes had passed.

Corbin looked at the empty velvet seat across from him. He let out a low, dark chuckle. He raised his hand, signaling the waiter for the check.

He didn't look at the bill. He dropped a crisp hundred-dollar bill on the table as a tip, picked up his medical journal, and walked out of the cafe with slow, measured steps.

A sleek black SUV was idling at the curb. Corbin climbed into the back seat. He pulled his phone from his suit pocket and dialed the number he had memorized from her medical chart an hour ago.

The phone didn't even ring. It went straight to a generic voicemail greeting.

Corbin's brow furrowed for a fraction of a second. Then, his eyes darkened, a dangerous, predatory light sparking in the icy blue depths. He tossed the phone onto the leather seat next to him and looked out the tinted window at the passing city lights.

"Think you can run, little liar?" he murmured to the empty car.

Three days later.

Hope stood at the front of the glass-walled conference room, her fingers gripping a laser pointer so tightly the plastic creaked. A dull, heavy ache radiated from her lower back, wrapping around her sides like a tightening iron corset.

She hadn't filled Corbin's prescription. The thought of taking medicine with his name on the bottle made her skin crawl. Instead, she had bought cheap cranberry extract pills from a corner CVS, hoping it would flush the infection out.

It hadn't. The infection had climbed.

Hope took a shallow breath and clicked to the next slide on the projector. "As you can see, the Q3 projections for the merger show a slight dip in-"

A sudden, blinding spike of agony drove straight through her right kidney.

Hope gasped, the sound echoing loudly in the quiet room. Her knees buckled slightly. The red dot of the laser pointer jerked wildly across the projection screen, dancing over the bar graphs like a manic heartbeat. Cold sweat instantly drenched her underarms.

Franklin Finch slammed his hand flat on the mahogany table. The loud smack made Hope flinch.

"Are you drunk, Spence?" Franklin barked, his face twisting in disgust. "Or did you spend all night popping pills at some club? You're shaking like a junkie."

A few of the senior partners sitting around the table let out low, cruel chuckles.

Hope's face drained of all color. She opened her mouth to defend herself, to say she was sick, but another wave of pain hit her so hard her vision went black at the edges. She gripped the edge of the podium to keep from collapsing.

"This presentation is garbage," Franklin sneered, tossing his printed copy of her deck onto the table. "Get out. You're embarrassing my firm. Don't come back until you can stand up straight."

The humiliation was a physical weight crushing her chest. Hope couldn't speak. She clutched her side, turned, and pushed through the heavy glass door. She limped past the rows of cubicles, ignoring the stares, grabbed her trench coat and purse, and stumbled toward the elevators.

She made it out of the building before her legs gave out.

Right on the corner of Wall Street, the pain ripped through her back with the force of a serrated knife. Hope dropped to her knees on the hard, filthy concrete. The impact sent a shockwave up her spine. She curled in on herself, wrapping her arms around her stomach, tears of pure agony spilling down her cheeks.

People in expensive suits stepped around her. No one stopped. The brutal indifference of New York City pressed down on her.

With trembling, numb fingers, she pulled out her phone. She searched for the nearest public hospital ER. The red text on the screen glared at her: Current Wait Time: 6 Hours.

A sob tore from her throat. She would die in a waiting room chair. Her kidney felt like it was going to burst.

She had no choice.

She opened her blocked contacts list. She stared at Corbin's number. The war between her pride and her physical survival raged in her chest, but the pain was a ruthless dictator. She unblocked the number, but she couldn't bring herself to call him directly. Instead, she dialed the clinic's main line.

"Manhattan Comprehensive," the receptionist answered.

"Hope Spence," Hope choked out, crying openly now. "I need... I need a doctor."

There was a brief pause, the sound of typing, and then the receptionist's tone shifted, becoming incredibly urgent and polite. "Ms. Spence. Dr. Mullen left strict instructions regarding your file. He has an emergency room prepped for you right now. How quickly can you get here?"

Hope's grip on the phone tightened. He knew. He knew she would fail. He knew she would come back. It was a trap, and she was walking right into it.

"Ten minutes," she sobbed.

She flagged down a taxi, practically crawling into the backseat. Every pothole the car hit sent a fresh wave of torture through her body.

When the cab pulled up to the clinic, Hope forced the door open and stumbled out. She pushed through the glass doors. The receptionist didn't ask her to sign anything. She immediately came out from behind the desk, grabbed Hope by the arm, and supported her weight as they walked down the long corridor toward the VIP suites.

The nurse pushed open a heavy oak door. The lights in the room were dimmed.

Corbin was standing by the floor-to-ceiling window, his back to the door, sipping from a white ceramic coffee cup. He wore his white coat, his posture rigidly perfect.

Hearing the door, he turned slowly. His icy blue eyes locked onto Hope's pale, sweat-drenched face. There was no surprise in his expression. Only a dark, terrifying calm.

The nurse stepped back and pulled the door shut. The lock clicked. They were sealed in.

Without the nurse supporting her, Hope's legs gave way. She slid down the heavy wooden door, her trench coat pooling around her as she hit the cold floor. She pulled her knees to her chest, gasping for air.

Corbin set his coffee cup down on the counter. The clink of the ceramic was the only sound in the room. He walked toward her, his long strides eating up the distance. He stopped right in front of her, towering over her crumpled form.

He didn't reach out to help her up. He looked down at her, his eyes cold and clinical.

"Over-the-counter cranberry pills," Corbin stated, his voice devoid of any sympathy. "Leading to a retrograde infection and acute pyelonephritis. I assumed a Wall Street analyst possessed basic common sense."

His words were precise, surgical strikes to her pride. Hope tilted her head back, looking up at him through her tears. The humiliation burned hotter than the fever in her blood.

"Leave me alone," she whispered weakly, her voice breaking. "I don't need your lectures."

Corbin let out a dark, humorless laugh. He suddenly dropped down, crouching in front of her. He reached out, his large, warm hand gripping her jaw. His fingers pressed firmly against her skin, forcing her to look directly into his eyes. The sheer dominance in his posture made her breath hitch.

"Leave you alone?" Corbin repeated, his voice dropping to a dangerous, velvety whisper. "You crawled back into my clinic, Ms. Spence. You don't get to dictate the terms anymore."

Hope stared into his eyes. The physical agony in her kidney and the total collapse of her emotional walls hit her all at once. She closed her eyes, a fresh tear slipping out from under her lashes, completely surrendering to the pain and the man holding her.