Chapter 50
NADIA
The morning air is crisp when I step out of my building, sunlight catching the glass towers in blinding shards.
I tug my coat tighter around me and start walking toward the corner of my block.
My body aches - the delicious kind of ache that follows a night of too much, of everything.
Every muscle feels wrung out, tender, alive.
I’m starving.
It’s ridiculous, really. After what happened last night, food should be the last thing on my mind.
But my body doesn’t care. It’s like all that adrenaline and ecstasy burned through me, left me empty and craving something mundane - coffee, fruit, bread, anything that reminds me the world still exists outside of Jude Mercer’s very skilled hands.
The sidewalk hums with life. A street musician strums an old guitar outside the bakery, his case open for coins. A group of students rush past, laughter spilling in their wake. For a moment, I let myself feel anonymous. Just another woman on another busy street.
Then I hear the low hum of an engine beside me.
A sleek, black town car glides to a slow stop against the curb. The tinted window rolls down, the mechanical whir slicing through the noise of the street.
And there he is.
Senator Roland Graves.
His silver hair gleams under the morning sun, and his smile - wide, practiced, plastic - does nothing to soften the hard gleam in his eyes.
“Dr. Reed,” he says warmly, voice honeyed. “What a coincidence, running into you here.”
I stop walking but don’t move closer. “Senator,” I acknowledge stiffly, knowing there’s probably nothing coincidental about us meeting on a random sidewalk.
“Do you have a moment to talk?” he asks, tilting his head just slightly, the picture of genteel patience.
Every instinct in me screams no.
People recognize this man on sight. He’s one of the city’s darlings - charismatic, philanthropic, quoted in every paper for his “devotion to reform.” He’s the type of man mothers tell their daughters to trust. And yet as I stand here on this bright, crowded street, all I feel is a thin, sharp thread of unease snake its way down my spine.
It’s strange, isn’t it? That I feel safer in the arms of a man I barely know - someone who wears danger like a second skin - than I do with a politician who smiles for cameras and does weekly photo ops with babies.
I take a step back, keeping a polite distance. “I’m afraid I’m in a bit of a rush,” I say. “Was there something specific you needed?”
His smile doesn’t falter, but there’s something off in it now. Something just a shade too tight. “I’ve been trying to reach you,” he says. “You haven’t returned my calls.”
So that’s what this is.
I grip the strap of my bag a little tighter. “I’ve been busy.”
“Busy,” he repeats, like he’s tasting the word. “Understandable. You work very hard.” His gaze lingers in a way that makes my skin crawl. “I admire your dedicated work ethic. I wanted to check on you personally. You seemed… distressed, the last time we spoke.”
“I’m fine,” I say quickly. “And I don’t think there’s anything more for us to discuss. I won’t be taking you up on your offer of dinner. I think it’s best if you stop calling me, senator.”
Something flickers across his face - a crack in his carefully constructed veneer. It’s gone in an instant, replaced by that polished charm again, but I saw it. The flash of irritation. The entitlement.
“Dr. Reed,” he says smoothly, “you misunderstand my intentions. I have a business proposition for you. One I think you’ll find… life-changing.”
“I’m not interested.”
“It’s not what you think,” he insists. “This isn’t about dinner. It’s about opportunity. You’re one of the most promising surgeons at St. Elizabeth’s. With my backing, you could be running your own hospital in a year.”
His words sound like they’re perfectly rehearsed. But there’s a weight behind them, something that makes my pulse jump in warning.
I force a tight smile. “That’s generous, senator. But I’m happy where I am.”
He studies me for a moment, his eyes going darker, colder. The smile stays fixed, but there’s steel underneath now. “Ambition can take you far, Dr. Reed,” he says quietly. “But knowing the right people takes you further. You’d be wise not to close doors before you’ve looked behind them.”
I take his words for what they are - threat, warning.
I hold his gaze, my heartbeat steady in my ears. “And some doors,” I reply, “aren’t worth opening.”
For a moment, neither of us moves. The car engine hums between us, a low growl beneath the calm.
Finally, I take a step back. “If you’ll excuse me, senator, I really do have things to do.”
He nods once, slow, his smile never reaching his eyes. “Of course. Another time, perhaps.”
“Not likely.”
I turn on my heel and start walking, feeling the weight of his gaze on my back. I don’t look over my shoulder, but I hear the faint click of the window rolling back up. The car doesn’t move. It just idles there, engine purring, watching me.
When I finally reach the corner, I exhale a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding.
My hands are trembling. Not out of fear, but from a deep, instinctive understanding that something isn’t right.
Because men like the senator don’t chase women for dinner.
Men like him don’t circle you politely, don’t “just happen” to be near your workplace twice in one week, then accost you near your residence. Men like him aren’t persistent out of charm - they’re persistent because they believe they’re entitled to the yes you haven’t given them.
As I cross the street and disappear into the hum of bodies, I feel that truth crawl up the back of my neck like cold breath. I let the crowd swallow me whole, weaving through strangers, letting their noise drown out the echo of his voice - but it doesn’t help.
Because no matter how far I walk, no matter how many people I hide behind, I can’t shake the feeling that he’s still watching me.
The grocery store is loud with the ordinary chaos of life - shopping carts squeaking, fruit bins being refilled, a kid crying somewhere near the dairy section.
I try to let the noise drown out the whirlwind in my head.
After last night, I need something simple, grounding.
I’m starving, sore, and more confused than I’ve ever been in my life.
So I focus on the most mindless task I can think of - buying fruit.
I stand by the citrus display, rolling an orange between my palms, checking for softness, for flaws. It’s absurdly domestic, but the act feels soothing. Normal. Something I can control.
Then a hand appears beside mine - large, powerful, veins running like rivers beneath the skin. It holds out another orange, perfectly round, sun-warmed from the display.
“This one looks like it could be juicy,” a deep voice says.
The sound shoots straight through me. I’d know that voice anywhere.
I turn, and there he is. Jude Mercer. Standing beside me like he belongs here. For a second, I forget how to breathe.
“What are you doing here?” I manage, my voice thinner than I want it to be.
He gives me that half-smile that’s equal parts charm and warning. “Same thing you’re doing.”
“Buying fruit?”
“Helping you,” he corrects easily, his gaze steady.
“At the same supermarket?” I ask, incredulous.
“I followed you here, Nadia.”
He makes no attempt to disguise the truth. He says it so calmly that for a moment, the words don’t even register as alarming. It’s ridiculous, and yet my pulse quickens.
He followed me.
The right reaction would be fear, maybe outrage. But those emotions don’t come. I just stand there, bag of oranges in my hand, looking at him like he’s the answer to a question I shouldn’t be asking.
Because I already know there’s something off about him. The way he moves is too precise. The way he watches me is too intent. He’s not normal, not safe by any reasonable definition. But I’ve never felt safer.
“I’m making breakfast,” I say quietly, not sure why I’m saying it or what I expect from him.
He blinks once, slow, then nods. The air between us shifts. The sentence hangs there, unspoken invitation and reckless confession rolled into one.
And I realize, with a sudden and horrifying clarity, that some part of me wants him to say yes.
He takes the bag gently from my hands and closes it, his fingers brushing mine for the briefest second. The contact sparks something in me - heat, memory, déjà vu. I look up, and he’s still watching me.
“I’ll carry these,” he says.
It’s such a simple thing, but it feels like more.
I should tell him to stop. I should tell him he’s crossing a line. But instead, I fall into step beside him, like we’ve done this a thousand times before and this isn’t completely insane.
He moves with quiet confidence, his stride matching mine perfectly. Every time I glance at him, I catch a glimpse of something soft under all that hardness - a protectiveness that feels as heavy as it does dangerous.
When we reach the register, I can feel people’s eyes on us. They probably think we’re a couple. The thought makes my stomach flutter in a way I can’t explain.
As we leave the store, I finally find my voice. “You don’t have to carry those,” I say, though it comes out sounding more like a question.
He just looks at me. “I know.”
But he doesn’t hand them over. And I don’t make him. Because deep down, I already know the truth: whatever this thing is between us, it’s not going away. And as terrifying as that should be…I’m not sure I want it to.