CHAPTER SIX
Lennon
I sit at the edge of the counter in my kitchen, the quiet hum of the refrigerator filling the space around me as I stare at the half-empty lavender tea mug in my hand. It’s 3:30 AM, the time when nurses find their second wind, and the world outside is quiet, except for the occasional distant siren cutting through the night. My work ended just a few hours ago, but my mind, as usual, is still buzzing with thoughts of the pediatric ICU and the tiny hearts I’ve been trying to save. But tonight, my thoughts drift to something more personal—the battle I’m fighting over the theater.
“Couldn’t sleep again?” Jeanette’s voice cuts through the stillness, her tone warm as she walks into the kitchen, her messy hair a clear sign of the three hours she’s been up. She, Nikki—our other friend—and I share a townhome close to downtown. It’s a good place to live, close to the places we all love, restaurants, cafes, the park… having roommates is a good way to help with the bills and my dear friends get accommodations that otherwise, considering the prices around town, were impossible to find.
I give a small smile, shaking my head as I set my mug down. “Nope. Just thinking.”
“About that lawyer who is trying to take over the theater?” Jeanette asks, perching on the barstool beside me.
I don’t answer right away. Instead, I look down at the kitchen table. The faded, well-worn wood has seen a lot of life in the last few years, from birthday parties to late-night dinners with friends, but the memory that lingers the most in my mind is the feeling of holding Freya’s hand as we walked across the same wooden floors in the theater.
“Yeah,” I reply finally, my voice soft but firm. “I don’t care what anyone says—I’m not letting them take it.”
Jeanette doesn’t answer immediately. She knows better than to push me when I get like this. She simply takes a deep breath and leans back in her chair, crossing her arms, giving me time to gather my thoughts.
The theater is more than just a building to me. It’s a symbol of everything I’ve lost, everything I’m fighting to keep. It’s the last place that holds any semblance of family for me. My godmother, Freya, raised me with the kind of love that most children would dream of, given my tragic history. I never had a relationship with my biological father, even if I know his name. He said he wasn’t interested in being a parent. My mother, a young army recruit, died when I was only five, leaving me with a box of old photographs and a memory of a woman who seemed more like a storybook heroine than a real person.
The first time I was told about my mother’s death, I was too young to understand the full weight of it. I was sitting on Freya’s lap, watching an old movie about a brave woman soldier who never gave up. The irony wasn’t lost on me, considering my mother had given her life for her country. But there was something different in how Freya told the story, as if trying to shield me from the raw hurt. It wasn’t until years later that I understood just how much war had shaped the woman who had taken me in and made me her own.
Freya was a German immigrant, tough as nails but soft when it came to me. From the day my mother died, Freya stepped in without question. I never knew a moment of neglect or doubt under her care. And it was Freya who introduced me to the theater—a grand, vintage place that smelled like popcorn and old leather seats, where the air always hummed with the promise of escape.
I close my eyes, remembering those Sunday afternoons. I was a little girl, back when the world was just a simple place of laughter and joy. Freya would hold my hand tightly as we walked into the darkened theater, the giant curtains parting like some magical portal. And for a few hours, nothing else mattered. Not the fact that I didn’t have my mother, or that my father was a stranger. None of that could touch me inside those walls, where stories on the screen made everything feel possible.
“Freya used to say that theaters were the only place where time stood still,” I murmur, my eyes flickering with the memory. “And it felt true every single time we went.”
Jeanette tilts her head, the soft glow of the kitchen light catching the concern in her eyes. “What are you going to do, Lennon? You know how much power that lawyer has behind this. He’s not going to back down just because you don’t want him to.”
My lips press into a thin line, the familiar mixture of anger and determination flaring in my chest. I’m not na?ve. I know Ruben Posada isn’t just any lawyer—he’s a golden boy, the one with the connections, the one who can make the impossible happen with a snap of his fingers. And here I am, a 31-year-old nurse fighting for a piece of history with nothing but my stubbornness and the memory of Freya’s hands gripping mine in the dark theater.
“I don’t care how powerful he is,” I reply, my voice low but fierce. “That place meant something to her. To me. I’m not letting it go without a fight.”
Jeanette doesn’t say anything for a long time. She just stares at me, a deep respect and admiration growing in her eyes. She knows how I am when I get like this. I’m fierce in ways that most people would never understand. I fight with a quiet strength, a kind of fire that makes people think twice before crossing me.
Finally, Jeanette sighs and stands up, walking over to my side. “Well, I’ll help you however I can. You know that.”
I smile, a soft, grateful smile. “I know. But this… this is something I have to do myself.”
Jeanette nods, reaching out to squeeze my shoulder. “You’ve got this, Lennon. You’ve always had this. But if you need a break, a laugh, or just someone to throw things at, I’m your girl.”
I chuckle, feeling the warmth of her support seep into my bones. “Thanks, Jeanette. I’ll keep that in mind.”
We stay in the kitchen, in the kind of comfortable silence that only best friends can share. My mind is still racing, still trying to figure out how to stop the impending sale of the theater, but for a brief moment, I feel the world’s weight lift just a little bit. I have my friends. I have Freya’s memory. And I will fight for what is right.
And if I have to confront Ruben Posada and San Francisco’s entire power structure to do it, so be it.
? ? ?
I’m not sure why I agreed to let Jason, one of the doctors from the other hospital win, drag me out tonight. I’m sure it’s his boyish smile and the way he always greets me with that chipper energy in the break room, but tonight, something in me finally caved. Maybe it’s the exhaustion, the pressure of the fight for the theater gnawing at my insides. Or maybe it’s just the fact that, for once, I’m trying to pretend I can move on. Pretend I can date someone who doesn’t make me feel like I’m being drawn into a whirlwind of emotion. My outfit reflects my enthusiasm for this date. Come on, I didn’t even shave my legs to come here. I’m just wearing a simple black long dress, high heel booties, and a leather jacket.
Jason’s a good guy. I know he is. He’s charming, attractive in that clean-cut way, with his messy hair and casual confidence that makes him the kind of guy who gets invited to every event, who can talk his way through anything. But tonight, I’m painfully aware that my heart isn’t in this. Not with him.
We pull up to the restaurant, an upscale place where the smell of fresh seafood and garlic wafts in the air like some kind of invitation. Jason beams as he opens my door, his hand brushing against mine as he helps me out. I smile, but it feels strained, almost like I’m going through the motions. I’ve been here before, done this before. Dating, flirting, making small talk—nothing that ever sticks, nothing that makes me feel anything more than… empty.
Inside, the atmosphere is seductive, a chandelier casting a soft, golden glow over the room. The polished wood floors and smooth jazz playing in the background add to the ambiance. Jason pulls out my chair with an unnecessary and exaggerated flourish, grinning at me like I’m his prize for the evening. I nod my thanks, settling into my seat, my fingers brushing against the fine linen napkin.
As I settle into the rhythm of the evening, I try to focus on Jason, but my eyes flicker instinctively to the back of the room—where I freeze.
Ruben is sitting at a corner table, laughing with two other men. The low hum of their conversation is barely audible over the ambient chatter of the restaurant, but I can feel his presence like an electric current in the air. My chest tightens before I can stop it. His eyes flicker to me, and for a heartbeat, it feels like time has slowed.
Ruben is effortlessly composed, his posture relaxed as he sips from a beer bottle. His expression is charming, but the moment he meets my gaze, I feel a shiver run down my spine. The look in his eyes—something… possessive, something unmistakable—locks onto me, and the air around me shifts. I feel the heat of his attention on my skin, and I force myself to look away, but not before I see the faintest smirk tug at his lips.
I try to refocus on Jason. He’s still talking, but his voice feels distant now, like it’s coming from underwater. His words are pleasant, but they fall flat against the thunder in my chest.
“So, Lennon,” Jason says, leaning slightly, “I was thinking we should take a trip to Napa soon. You know, just the two of us. I hear the wine tours are incredible this time of year.”
Soon? That sounds rushed to me.
I nod, offering a polite smile, but my mind is elsewhere. Jason’s words are so…so light, so easy. Nothing of substance, nothing that digs deeper. I can’t help but think about Ruben, the way his gaze keeps finding me across the room, the way his presence seems to make everything else feel like a distraction. Jason continues, but I hear nothing he says.
I force my attention back to Jason, forcing a smile. “Yeah, that sounds fun.”
“Fun?” Jason chuckles, leaning in just a little too close, his cologne a bit overwhelming. “It’s going to be a blast. Just imagine, a whole weekend of wine, food, golf, and—”
“Wine and food,” I state, my mind clearly not engaged. I glance down at my menu, suddenly feeling claustrophobic. My throat tightens as I push my discomfort down.
Jason takes a pause, clearly noticing the distance in my response, but he doesn’t seem to catch on to the real reason. Instead, he smiles and presses on, offering a string of more cheerful conversation about work, about the latest gossip in the hospital, but it all feels so…shallow. Like plastic, wrapping paper around something empty. I nod and smile, but it’s all a little too perfect. Too curated.
The sound of Ruben’s low, rich laugh travels through the room, and I can feel it in my chest. My heart lurches, a flutter of something I don’t want to name skittering across my skin. I look up quickly, and this time, Ruben’s eyes are locked onto mine. He’s no longer smiling, just watching me, his gaze heavy, intent. It feels like he’s peeling me open with just one look, and I suddenly wish I could disappear, that I could run to the safety of the exit, away from this suffocating pull I can’t quite explain.
Jason is still talking—about what, I couldn’t tell you—and I nod along, trying to listen, trying to focus. But it’s like the world is muffled around me. I can hear Ruben’s voice now, low and commanding, mixing with Jason’s bright, empty chatter. The contrast between the two men is sharp. Ruben’s presence is magnetic, something raw and real that makes Jason’s polished, boy-next-door charm seem… pale.
I glance down at my plate, trying to steady my thoughts, but I feel his eyes on me—on my skin, on my every movement. It’s a weight, almost tangible. Every time I shift in my seat, I know Ruben is watching. The air thickens with his stare, and the realization that I am completely aware of him in this space, this elegant, restrained setting, makes me feel exposed in a way I can’t explain.
I turn back to Jason, my smile tight. “You know, I’ve been thinking,” I say, trying to steer the conversation. “I’m really not much of a wine person. Maybe we could try something else, like a hike?”
Jason grins. “Of course, we can do whatever you want. I just thought Napa would be great for…”
But I don’t catch the rest of whatever comes out of his mouth. Ruben’s laughter echoes again, louder this time, cutting through the air with a familiarity that grates against my nerves. It’s like it’s meant for me, a challenge mocking me from across the room. I can feel his dark eyes on me, searing through the space between us, and my chest tightens, the tension building with every second he’s near.
I glance back at Jason, but his words are nothing more than noise now—hollow, distant, like static buzzing in the background of a world I no longer belong to. The weight of it crashes over me, and for the first time tonight, the realization hits me like a slap to the face. I’ve been drowning in these empty, meaningless exchanges. And in the presence of Ruben’s gaze, hot and unrelenting on me, I see it. I’ve been longing for something real, something more.
His eyes burn into me, a smoldering heat that makes my heart race and my breath catch. He’s sin wrapped in a tailored suit—devastatingly handsome, dangerously magnetic, and utterly irresistible. If temptation had a name, it would be his. No wonder I’m convinced he’s Satan himself.
And you know what they say about that kind of itch.
I need to escape.
Without thinking, I stand up, my body moving on its own, driven by an instinct I can’t control. “Excuse me,” I murmur, barely looking at Jason as I turn and head for the nearest bathroom. I can feel Ruben’s stare following me, but I don’t care. I just need to get away from it all.
A girl’s resistance only goes so far, and I’ve just hit my breaking point.