A month had passed, and I was slowly pulling myself together after the trauma.
My shattered wrist and fingers had been surgically repaired, but the delayed treatment meant that I would never wield a scalpel again.
Saying I was not heartbroken would be a lie, but life moved forward, and so did I. So I enrolled in a painting class. I needed to discover what it felt like to exchange a surgeon's precision for an artist's passion.
As I studied my finished canvas at the end of class that day, a quiet pride warmed my chest.
Then a voice sliced through the quiet. "Serena."
Those two syllables froze me in place. Clenching my fists, I turned to face Ethan, and my voice dripped with icy detachment. "What do you want?"
Crushing his cigarette underfoot, he closed the distance between us. "I am
