The private foundation clinic was quieter than usual that night.
Cattleya arrived just after midnight, her black cloak concealing her white coat underneath. She had told her father she was working a double shift. Another lie that came too easily now.
The same silent attendant led her down the familiar marble corridor. This time, there were no patients waiting. No excuses. Only a single door at the end of the hall, slightly ajar, with warm golden light spilling out.
She stepped inside.
Rusty Vesper stood by the floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the cathedral district, a heavy leather-bound book in his hands. He wore a simple black shirt, sleeves rolled up, revealing strong forearms. The sight of him—unguarded, domestic—sent a fresh wave of heat through her body.
He turned when she en
