Second to no one

Chapter 1: The encounter

*Five Years Later*

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“Shhh, shhh, it’s okay, baby. Don’t cry—you’re going to love school,” I whispered, brushing Chase’s curls from his forehead.

“But I don’t wanna go, Mama. I wanna stay with you,” he whimpered, clutching my leg.

“I know, sweetheart, but Mama has to work so she can get you those toys you like.” That seemed to cheer him up a bit. I kissed his cheek, grabbed my bag, and we headed out.

Convincing a four-year-old mama’s boy to go to kindergarten wasn’t easy, especially on the first day of my new job. I made sure I had everything—keys, ID, coffee—before dropping him off. Then I drove across the city to the New York Sports Injury Center, where I’d recently been transferred. My assignment: help rehabilitate an athlete recovering from a shoulder injury sustained during a game.

The building was sleek and modern. After checking in, I received my ID badge and was shown to my office—a spacious room, necessary for the physical therapy equipment we use.

At exactly 10:00 a.m., a knock sounded at my door.

“Come in,” I called.

And there he was.

Dominic.

The man who broke my heart.

My breath caught. One would think a year would be enough to get over someone, but my heart still ached at the sight of him.

“Isa,” he said softly.

“Good morning, Mr. Petrov,” I replied, keeping my tone professional. I wouldn’t let him break me again. I had my son to think about and a career I’d worked hard to build.

“Please, have a seat on the exam table.”

He looked perplexed, perhaps even stunned to see me again.

“You look... gorgeous,” he murmured.

I ignored the comment and focused on the task at hand.

As he sat, I examined his shoulder. “Do you feel any pain when you move your arm?”

“Yes,” he replied.

“Does it hurt when I touch here?” I pressed gently on his shoulder.

“Yes,” he said again.

“Lift your arm for me.”

He complied, wincing slightly, though trying to hide it.

“Okay, it appears you’ve strained your deltoid and rotator cuff muscles. I’ll write a prescription for the pain and schedule your next physiotherapy session for Tuesday.”

He seemed distracted, his mind elsewhere.

“Mr. Petrov, prescription and physiotherapy—got it?” I prompted.

“Yeah... got it,” he said, still looking at me.

“That will be all for today.”

As soon as he left, I nearly let out a sob. Why him? Of all the clients in New York, why did it have to be him?

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