Chapter 9
Chapter nine
Chloe
Ipush open Zac’s office door, scanning the darkness. My fingers find the light switch, and it’s like any other office—plain wooden desk, minimalist décor, certificates lining the wall. But I know it’s his. I can smell him. His scent lingers in the air, pressed into every corner of the room.
I close the door behind me, my eyes drinking in every detail, eager for a glimpse into who Zachery Bennett is. He’s seen me in my comfort zone, but I’ve never seen him in his. And I’m like a kid on Christmas morning, I don’t know where to look first.
I move to the wall of certificates, taking in each one.
Pre-med at a top-tier U.S. university. Emergency Medicine.
Cardiothoracic Surgery. Member of the Australian Surgical Board.
He’s not just good at what he does, he’s exceptional.
Not in that highbrow, academic way, either.
He swears like a sailor and has the filthiest mouth I’ve ever heard.
And don’t they say the biggest swearers are usually the smartest?
But it’s his eyes that give him away—that sharp, perceptive gaze that says he’s operating on another level. High IQ. Higher EQ.
I already had an inkling he was extraordinary, but seeing it laid out like this—a roadmap of his mind and success—ruins me.
It’s rare for anyone to swap fields or master more than one specialty, let alone as a surgeon.
It’s practically unheard of. My heart’s already a casualty of this man, and this? Another blow.
I move to a tall free-standing cupboard, curiosity prickling.
Two dry-cleaned suits. Crisp shirts. A stack of green scrubs.
Socks and boxers folded with military precision.
I pick up one of the shirts, lift it to my nose—hoping for a hit of him—but all I get is fresh detergent.
Disappointed, I hang it back up and close the door.
I check the filing cabinet—only work files.
No personal touches. The minibar’s stocked with water, energy drinks, a fresh salad, and a sandwich.
Everything neat, organized. The bookshelves are the same: medical texts, reference tomes, case studies.
I flip through one, fingers lingering on the dog-eared page.
A research paper published only a month ago.
He doesn’t just practice—he studies, he keeps up and earns the respect of his peers.
And damn if that doesn’t light me up. Heat coils low, my thighs pressing together, wet and wanting.
No personal books, though. I wonder what he reads for pleasure—if he even lets himself. Or if everything in his world exists to serve a purpose, even his downtime.
I find a door and peek inside—a bathroom, predictably immaculate. I open the vanity: cologne, mouthwash, deodorant. Cologne. I spray a bit into the air and close my eyes. It’s him. Clean and masculine. My nipples harden, and I put it down before I get any dumb ideas. This shit is potent.
I unwrap a fresh toothbrush, brush my teeth, and rinse with mouthwash.
My skin’s clammy and pale in the mirror, so I splash it with freezing water, hoping it’ll bring some color back to my cheeks.
I take out my hair and retie it into a high ponytail, smoothing down the flyaways.
My body’s so dehydrated, I don’t even need to pee.
Feeling like this is as good as it’s going to get, I step out of the bathroom and drift over to his desk. The top is mostly clear, a neat stack of papers on one side. My fingers trace the polished wood, soaking in every detail.
Then I see a photo frame that stops me in my tracks.
Zac, head pressed against a stunning brunette’s, both of them laughing. Eyes bright, cheeks pink. The kind of candid joy you can’t fake.
The knot in my stomach pulls tight. My knees buckle, and I sink into his chair, the leather cold against my scrubs.
They look close. And he looks happy. Doctors only ever have pictures of their families on their desks.
Sister, maybe? But I already know that’s not the case.
They look too close, too intimate. I already know who this is.
I should’ve known. A man like him—early forties, smart, kind, and hot—of course he has someone. My fingers shake as I pick up the frame, turn it over, and take out the picture.
On the back, in delicate script:
To my one and only. Don’t forget to celebrate the small moments. All my love, Casey xx
A bitter laugh slips out, half sob, half self-mockery.
Of course he has a wife.
Tears burn hot as they spill over, and I swipe them away with the back of my hand. I should be furious that he hasn’t been honest. But I’m not angry.
I’m just… disappointed. Disappointed in myself for falling so hard, for letting my heart override what my head should have known all along.
Disappointed that this revelation doesn’t make me want him any less.
I still care for him. I still ache for him, even though he doesn’t belong to me.
I wish I could hate him—cut out those feelings and be done with it. If only it were that easy.
Do I want to take him from her? I’m not that girl. I’m not here to destroy a home. But it doesn’t stop my heart from wanting. I’m not a machine. It doesn’t change anything.
He’s a good man—I know it in my bones. Maybe they have an open relationship. Maybe she knows. Maybe she’s okay with it. What do I know? All I have to go on is my gut, and my gut says Zac wouldn’t cheat. He doesn’t have it in him.
I put the photo frame back together and position it the way it was.
My legs tremble as I move to the couch, curling up with a pillow that smells like him.
I bet he’s spent many nights on this couch.
A deep ache throbs between my thighs, echoing the hollow ache of my heart. I close my eyes, mind spinning.
A few minutes later, the door clicks open. My heart jumps.
“Sorry, got caught up.” His arms are full—supplies and an IV stand. He toes the door shut behind him, eyes scanning me. “How are you feeling?”
“Been better.” That’s the honest truth. Physically, I’m exhausted. And emotionally, I’m drained.
He drags the coffee table closer and sits on the edge. “You’re low in magnesium and potassium, I’m gonna fix you up.” He shakes the saline bag and flashes a reassuring smile.
“Thanks.” My voice cracks, but I don’t care.
He studies me for a moment. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I reply quickly, holding his gaze. He doesn’t buy it, but he lets it go, jaw flexing.
That photo is burned into my mind. It’s not my place to question him, is it? I bury the disappointment beneath the need to feel him again—just for a little while. I need him more than I need answers.
“I told Olivia you’re on break. You’ve got half an hour to get this bag in and rest.” He unwraps the bandage over my IV site and flushes it with saline. “I’m giving you 5 ml of Buscopan for the cramps and Maxolon for the nausea.”
I nod, grateful for his help, though my stubborn streak makes it hard to accept. He works methodically, pushing the drugs one after the other. But when he adjusts the bandage over the cannula, his hand stills.
“What’s this?” His voice drops an octave.
I follow his gaze to my wrist. The skin beneath the bandage is angry and red, already blooming in shades of purple.
“Chloe.” His tone isn’t soft now; it’s steel. “What happened?”
I hesitate. “Nothing.”
“That’s twice you’ve lied to me.” His eyes lock on mine. “I’m not going to tolerate it again.”
I flick my gaze away. I don’t owe him an explanation—not when he’s still holding on to a bigger one.
There’s a pause, long enough that the tension pulls taut between us.
He breaks first, exhaling through his nose. “Fine,” he mutters, more to himself than me. A line drawn but not crossed.
He walks to the minibar and pulls out an apple juice, sets it in front of me on the coffee table. “Let me know if the drip burns and I’ll reduce the speed.” He doesn’t look at me when he speaks next. “Start sipping this at the twenty-minute mark. The sugar will perk you up.”
“I know, I’m a doctor, remember?” I quip, a small smile tugging at the corners of my lips.
I know all of this because I’ve been dealing with this shit since I was a teenager.
But hearing him say it, in that calm, commanding tone?
I could listen to him order me around all day.
My pussy clenches at his take-charge attitude.
I know he cares for me and wants to take care of me.
And I’m all too willing to say, “yes, Doctor.”
“I’ll be back in ten to check on you.” He leans down and presses a kiss to my forehead, the tenderness in it gutting me. Then he’s gone, the door shutting softly behind him.
Almost immediately, the pain ebbs, the nausea fading. My eyelids droop.
***
“How you feeling?”
I blink awake, disoriented.
Fuck, did I fall asleep?
My watch says fifteen minutes have passed, but it feels like I’ve been out for hours. My body weighs a ton, sinking into the couch. I obviously needed the nap.
“Surprisingly better,” I admit, stretching my arms, careful of the drip.
“Good.” He smiles, and it’s like sunlight cutting through clouds. “I’m gonna have a quick lunch, do you mind if I eat in front of you?”
“Go ahead.”
He grabs his salad and sandwich, settling into the armchair across from me. He props his feet on the coffee table, biting into his sandwich like a starving animal.
I finally manage to move my muscles, swinging my legs to the floor and sitting upright on the couch.
I sip my organic cold-pressed apple juice, the sweetness a shot of energy. “Damn, that tastes amazing,” I mumble, savoring every swallow. I can almost feel the glucose working its way through my veins.
He chuckles low.
“What?”
“You have the same look of relief when I come inside you.”
“I do not.” A laugh bursts from my chest, my cheeks flush hot.
His deep laugh is like molasses on my skin, sticky, warm, and wet, and I feel it in places I crave for him to be.