Chapter 2
The Spite Prescription
PRESTON
Three Years Later
They say that spite is not a sustainable fuel source. They say it burns hot and fast, like magnesium, and eventually leaves you cold, dark, and empty.
Those people have clearly never met a York. I have been running on premium, high-octane spite for four years.
I graduated college at nineteen. I finished medical school at twenty-three. While other people my age are currently backpacking through Europe or figuring out how to use a microwave, I am about to be responsible for human lives.
I pull Alistair’s vintage Porsche 911 into the parking garage. The engine purrs—a throaty, expensive sound that echoes off the concrete walls like a challenge. I park next to a Honda Civic that is held together by duct tape, rust, and prayer.
I check my reflection in the rearview mirror. My hair is perfect—styled with a texturizing paste that costs more than a flight to Europe. My scrubs are navy blue, 400-thread count Egyptian cotton, and custom-tailored to fit my shoulders. I look fantastic. I look like I own the place.
Technically, my father’s foundation does own a significant wing of the place, specifically the West Wing, but I’m not going to mention that. Not today.
Today is Day One of residency. Today is the day I prove Maxwell wrong.
I step out of the car. My Gucci loafers hit the oil-stained concrete. Maxwell warned me about the shoes. He said I need "arch support." He said I need "fluid resistance."
I said I need to maintain a shred of my dignity in a place where people wear plastic crocs voluntarily.
I grab my stethoscope—a sleek, matte-black Littmann Master Cardiology edition—and head for the elevator.
The doors slide open to reveal a crowded metal box smelling of stale coffee, rubbing alcohol, and fear. The other interns are easy to spot. They’re the ones vibrating. They clutch their clipboards like shields. They look pale, clammy, and distinctly middle-class.
I step in. "Good morning," I say, flashing my best gala smile.
A girl with frizzy hair and a suspicious brown stain on her scrub top stares at me. "You smell like sandalwood," she whispers, sounding accusatory. "Why do you smell like sandalwood? I smell like anxiety and ham."
"It’s a custom blend," I say, pressing the button for the fourth floor. "Breathing it in costs five dollars. I’ll bill you."
She blinks. The elevator chimes.
Fourth Floor. General Surgery.
The doors open, and chaos hits us like a physical wave.
Alarms are beeping. Phones are ringing. People are running. It is loud, bright, and smells faintly of bleach and something organic that has gone wrong.
"Welcome to the meat grinder, fresh meat!" a voice booms.
Standing at the nurses' station is a man who looks like he personally fought a bear and lost, but refuses to admit it. He has dark, messy curls that defy gravity, broad shoulders that fill out his scrubs, and eyes that are so dark they look like double shots of espresso.
This is Dr. Lucas Silva. Chief Resident.
I know his file. Top of his class. Ruthless. Efficient. And, according to the hospital grapevine, completely devoid of a soul.
Standing next to him, tapping a red pen against the counter, is a woman who is clearly the actual boss. She is short, stout, and terrifying. She wears a scrub cap patterned with bright red chilli peppers.
"Dr. Silva," she says, her voice cutting through the noise like a scalpel. "Stop scaring the children. You look like a gargoyle."
"I’m establishing dominance, Mama," Silva mutters, not looking at her. "Where are the labs for Bed 3?"
"They’re back when I say they’re back, mijo," she snaps, pulling a Tupperware container out of her bag and shoving it into his chest. "Eat your oatmeal. You look peaked."
"I’m not hungry—"
"Eat. The. Oatmeal."
He takes the container. "Yes, Ma’am."
So, the rumours are true. Rosa "Mama" Ortiz. Charge Nurse. The only person Alistair York is afraid of. And judging by the way Dr. Silva instantly crumbles, she is definitely his mother.
Silva scans the group of terrified interns. His gaze lands on the frizzy-haired girl, then the guy sweating through his shirt, and finally, me.
He stops.
He looks at my hair. He looks at my tailored scrubs. He looks down at the loafers.
His lip curls. It isn't a subtle curl. It is a sneer of profound, spiritual disappointment.
"You," he says, pointing a pen at me.
"Dr. York," I supply helpfully. "Preston."
"I didn't ask," he snaps. He leans in, squinting at me. "How old are you? Do you even have a driver's license, or did your au pair drop you off?"
"I am twenty-three," I say, puffing out my chest slightly. "I was on the Dean's List."
"You're a baby," Silva groans. "Great. I’m babysitting. You’re late."
"I’m three minutes early," I check my Rolex.
"You’re on my time, York," he says, stepping closer. He smells like soap and exhaustion. It’s surprisingly nice. "And on my time, if you aren't five minutes early, you’re late. And if you’re wearing shoes that cost more than my student loan debt, I assume you aren't planning to do any actual work."
"These have excellent traction," I lie. They have soles slippery as glass.
"We'll see," Silva says. He turns to the group. "I am Dr. Silva. This is Nurse Ortiz. She runs this floor. If you annoy me, I will make you do rectal exams until your fingers prune. If you annoy her, your body will never be found. Do you understand?"
The interns nod frantically.
He starts handing out assignments.
"Miller, you’re on post-op checks. Try not to faint." "Cheng, you’re shadowing Dr. O’Connell in Trauma. God speed." "Levine, scuts."
He stops at me. He taps the clipboard against his thigh. A dark, evil glint appears in his eyes.
"York," he says softly.
"Yes, Chief?"
"Bay 4 needs a consult."
"Excellent," I say, straightening my stethoscope. "Cardio? Neuro? A rare tropical disease?"
"Manual Disimpaction," Silva says.
Behind him, Mama Ortiz snorts loudly. She looks me up and down, her eyes narrowing as she assesses the loafers. "Good luck, Princess," she mutters. "Wear a splash guard."
"Who is the patient?" I ask, refusing to let my smile falter.
"Mr. Bromley," Silva says. "He’s a frequent flyer. He has a recurring issue with... gravity. And household objects."
"I don't follow."
"You will," Silva smiles. It isn't a nice smile. It is the smile of a man sending a gladiator into a pit with a lion, armed only with a spoon. "Go on, York. Don't keep the patient waiting. And try not to scuff the shoes."
Bay 4 is curtained off. I can hear polite, hushed humming coming from inside. It sounds like Mozart.
I pull back the curtain.
Sitting on the edge of the gurney is a sweet-faced elderly man wearing a beige cardigan and reading glasses on a chain. He looks like a librarian who got lost on the way to a tea party.
"Good morning," I say, stepping inside. "I’m Dr. York."
"Oh, hello," the man says, beaming. "I’m Mr. Bromley. So sorry to be a bother. It’s just... it’s happened again."
"What has happened, Mr. Bromley?"
"A mishap," he sighs. "I was rearranging my study. Feng Shui, you know. Very important for the energy flow. I felt the Chi was blocked in the corner."
"Of course," I say, flipping open his chart. "And?"
"And I slipped," Mr. Bromley says tragically. "I was on the step stool, reaching for a first edition of Dickens, and I lost my footing. I fell backwards."
I look at the X-ray on the tablet.
My eyes widen. I zoom in. I zoom out. I tilt the screen.
There, lodged firmly in the patient’s descending colon, is a perfect, black sphere.
"Is that..." I squint. "A Magic 8-Ball?"
"It is," Mr. Bromley confirms. "Standard size. I landed right on it. Terribly unlucky. I was actually consulting it about my stock portfolio right before the accident occurred."
I stare at him. "You landed on it."
"With force," he nods. "I tried to get it out myself, but it seems to have created a seal. Like a cork in a wine bottle."
I take a deep breath. I look down at my hands. These hands have held champagne flutes. They have held steering wheels of Italian sports cars. They have never held a lubricant-covered toy inside an elderly man.
I could walk out. I could quit. I could go to the Board meeting, drink the scotch, and live a life of hygiene.
Then I think of Silva’s face. I assume you aren't planning to do any actual work.
"Right," I say. "Nurse!"
A nurse pokes her head in. It isn't Ortiz. It’s a terrified-looking student.
"I need lube," I say. "All of it."
"How much?"
"Imagine you are greasing a pig for a wrestling match," I say grimly. "And then double it."
Ten minutes later, I am regretting every life choice that has led me to this moment.
"Relax, Mr. Bromley," I grunt, sweat trickling down my temple. My arm is deep inside the unknown. "Think of the Feng Shui."
"It feels quite... full," Mr. Bromley notes politely, clutching the rails of the bed.
"That’s because it’s a sphere, Mr. Bromley!" I snap. "It’s not aerodynamic!"
I have my left hand on his hip for leverage. My right hand is acting as a human crowbar. The suction is incredible. It is defying the laws of physics. It is like the 8-Ball wants to stay there. It has found a home.
"I’m going to need you to push," I instruct.
"Push?"
"Yes! Like you’re trying to launch a satellite!"
"Okay, here goes!"
Mr. Bromley pushes. I pull.
There is a noise.
It isn't a dignified noise. It is a wet, squelching THWOCK—the sound of a boot being pulled out of deep mud.
The seal breaks.
"Incoming!" I yell.
The Magic 8-Ball rockets out of Mr. Bromley like a cannonball.
It flies. It actually flies.
It hits my chest with a dull thud, bounces off my sternum, and lands on the linoleum floor with a wet smack.
A split second later, the... aftermath follows.
I jump back. My reflexes are honed by years of dodging champagne corks. I do a pirouette that would make the Bolshoi Ballet proud.
The splash zone misses my Gucci loafers by a millimetre. A single drop of unidentifiable fluid lands on the toe of my left shoe.
I stare at it. It stares back.
"Oh, bravo!" Mr. Bromley claps weakly. "I feel much lighter."
I stand there, breathing heavily. My pristine scrubs are ruffled. My dignity is in tatters. But the object is out.
I bend down—carefully—and pick up the Magic 8-Ball with a gloved hand. I wipe the viewing window with a piece of gauze.
The blue triangle floats up through the murk.
OUTLOOK NOT SO GOOD.
"You can say that again," I mutter.
I walk out of Bay 4 holding a biohazard bag containing the contraband.
Dr. Silva is standing at the nurses' station, typing on a computer. Mama Ortiz is next to him, peeling an orange.
They both stop when they see me.
I walk up to the desk. I place the bag gently on the counter next to Silva’s oatmeal.
"Outlook good," I say.
Silva stares at the bag. Then he looks at me. He scans me for damage. He sees the single spot on my shoe.
"You got it out?" he asks, sounding genuinely annoyed that I’m not covered in waste.
"Manual extraction," I say, peeling off my gloves with a snap. "Patient is resting comfortably. He asked for the ball back. I told him his future was cloudy."
Mama Ortiz lets out a bark of laughter that sounds like a shotgun blast. She tosses a slice of orange at me. I catch it one-handed.
"Not bad, Princess," she says, nodding at the bag. "Most interns need the forceps. You got good hands. Soft, but strong."
"Thank you, Nurse Ortiz," I say, popping the orange slice into my mouth. "I played piano. Rachmaninoff requires excellent finger strength."
"Don't get cocky, York," Silva snaps, snatching the bag off the counter. "That was the warm-up. And fix your hair. You look like you just had sex in a wind tunnel."
"I looked fantastic in that wind tunnel," I correct, checking my reflection in the monitor. "What’s next, Chief? Do we have anyone who fell on a toaster?"
Silva steps into my personal space. He is tall. Annoyingly tall. And up close, his eyes are burning with a mix of exhaustion and a grudging, microscopic amount of respect.
"Go to the ER," he orders. "Bed 6. Disimpaction."
"Again?"
"You're good at digging for treasure," Silva smirks. "And until you buy hospital-approved shoes, you belong in the shit. Dismissed."
I salute him. "Aye aye, Captain."
I turn on my heel, my loafers squeaking slightly on the linoleum.
I make it three steps before I hear them whispering. The acoustics in this hallway are terrible for privacy, but excellent for my ego.
"He won't last a week, Mama," Lucas mutters. "Look at him. He’s practically vibrating with entitlement. He’s a York."
"The brother turned out decent," Rosa replies, her voice thoughtful. "Eventually. He was a stiff board until he got with Jax. That O'Connell boy fixed him good. Maybe there's hope for the spare."
"Max actually does work," Lucas argues. "This one is just... shiny."
"I give him a month," Rosa decides. "He didn't gag. And he caught the orange. I like him. He’s pretty."
"He’s a menace."
"He’s your problem, mijo. Eat your oatmeal."
I grin as I walk toward Bed 6.
Game on.