19. Sam
NINETEEN
Sam
I pry my eyes open as sunshine filters through my half-drawn curtains. My body aches in the most delicious way, but there's no warm body beside me. No Cole.
Good. This is what I wanted. What we both wanted.
I roll over, wincing slightly at the tender spots along my inner thighs, little reminders of last night's intensity. The sheets smell like him somehow, a musky, intimate scent that immediately pulls me back to his hands on my skin, his weight pressing me into the mattress.
Fuck.
I left because I'm done pretending this is anything more than it is. He weakly tried to stop me. That's the arrangement we silently agreed to somewhere between angry words and desperate touches.
Just two people using each other.
I reach for my phone on the nightstand, jabbing at the power button. Nothing happens. Dead. Like my brain right now.
I drag myself to the bathroom, avoiding my reflection. I don't need to see what I already feel. Seeing the marks on my skin, the tangled hair, and the emptiness in my eyes will only reinforce my despair.
The hot shower spray hits my shoulders, and I lean against the cool tile, letting water cascade down my back.
The sex was incredible. But the uncertainty is worse. What happens after tomorrow's vote?
My stomach twists. I scrub harder with my loofah, as if I could wash away these complicated feelings along with the evidence of our night together.
Clean, but not clear-headed, I wrap myself in a towel and pad back to the bedroom. My charging cable lies on the floor where I kicked it last night when I got home, too spent to bend down and pick it up.
I plug in my phone and wait impatiently for it to power up.
The screen finally illuminates, immediately buzzing with delayed notifications. Five missed calls from Kip. All within the last hour.
My heart rate spikes. Kip never calls more than once unless it's an emergency.
I swipe to call him back, dread pooling in my stomach. Whatever this is, I'm not ready for it. Not today. Not when I'm already balancing on the knife-edge of professional obligation and personal desire.
The phone rings once, twice?—
"Sam? Finally!" Kip's voice bursts through the speaker, tight with urgency.
"What's wrong?"
"Where have you been? The board meeting's been moved up. They're voting in thirty minutes."
"Thirty minutes? How?" My voice cracks.
"I don't know exactly, I just know it's happening. Emergency restructure or whatever bullshit they're calling it." Kip's words tumble over each other .
"Are you there?"
"No, I'm at Citrine. Come get me and we will go together."
I hang up without saying goodbye, flinging my towel across the room. I notice I have three missed calls from Arden, too, but I don't have time to call her right now.
My heart hammers against my ribs as I yank on clean scrubs, not bothering with makeup.
Thirty minutes isn't even enough time to process what happened with Cole last night, let alone prepare mentally for what today means.
I text Arden as I climb into my car.
Hospital vote was rescheduled to this morning. In 30 minutes. I promise I'll call you when it's over.
Ten minutes later, I push through Citrine's glass doors. The familiar scent of espresso and spinach greets my senses.
Kip sits at our usual corner table, two green smoothies already waiting. His sandy hair sticks up at odd angles, and those wire-rimmed glasses perch precariously on his nose.
"Why were your calls going straight to voicemail?" His eyebrows disappear into his hairline as he slides a smoothie toward me.
I drop into the seat across from him, not meeting his eyes. "Long story. I didn't plug in my phone last night."
He snorts, leaning forward to examine my face. "Must've been biblical."
Heat crawls up my neck. I take a long sip of the smoothie, letting the cold kale-apple mixture cool my burning cheeks. Something about Kip's teasing makes me feel seen in a way that's both comforting and excruciating.
"Do you want details or the emergency board meeting rundown?" I manage a weak smile, but my hands tremble around the plastic cup.
"Both, obviously. But duty before pleasure. Twenty-three minutes until they vote on whether to gut your mom's wing." Kip taps his watch.
I swallow hard. "Who moved it up? Was it?—"
"Not Houston. I think something about the mortgage. It was the CFO. They're claiming urgent financial restructuring needs."
Something sinks in my stomach.
I stare at my smoothie, watching condensation slide down the cup like tears.
"We need to go. If we don’t get there in time, there may not be anything left to fight for."
My phone vibrates in the cup holder. It's a text from Dad.
Vote meeting now. Get here if you want to sit in.
I press my foot a little harder on the gas and slam the heel of my palm on the wheel when we catch a red light.
I shove the door open and power through the hospital’s main corridor like I’m running late for a trauma consult.
Kip hurries to keep up. “You sure you’re okay to do this?”
“Nope. But I guess we're about to find out.”
We reach the boardroom. I grab the handle, exhale, and push.
Inside, the air's thick with silence and suit jackets. Board members turn one by one, heads swiveling like chess pieces.
Dad sits near the head of the table with his arms folded and his expression unreadable. The midmorning light cuts across his face in stripes. He nods once, and I nod back .
“Dr. Taylor,” Chairman Wilson says, gesturing to a seat.
"Good morning."
“We’re glad you could make it. It's important to have feedback and participation from the doctors as well as the board.”
“Thank you,” I say, sliding into the chair.
The assistant sets a glass of water in front of me. I nod my thanks and scan the room. Grimaldi is here, too, and as stone-faced as ever.
Then I spot the CFO and three members I know by name, though their smiles look thinner than the paper in front of them.
But the one person I'm nervously anticipating, Cole, isn't here.
At the exact moment I realize it, the doors open and he walks in.
Every cell in my body lights up and screams. He looks like sin in a suit. As always, he's sharp, sporting the clean lines and not wearing a tie.
He projects raw power. He doesn’t look at me, not right away. He confidently moves to his seat like this is any other vote on any other day.
“Mr. Houston. Good morning. We were just beginning,” Wilson says.
Cole doesn’t sit.
He steps around the table, walking toward me. He's calm and controlled, like he’s walking into a negotiation and already knows the terms.
My heart bangs in my chest. His eyes flick to mine, then away.
He stops at my chair. Close enough to feel. Close enough to remember .
“Before we begin,” Cole says, addressing the room, “I’d like to disclose that Dr. Taylor and I..."
Oh, shit. What is he saying? My pulse rips through my chest, worrying he is about to out me as his fuck buddy to everyone here, including my father and Dr. Grimaldi.
"...have had recent discussions regarding the Evelyn Taylor Wing.”
Heads turn like dominoes. Grimaldi narrows her eyes, and my father leans forward, visibly tense.
I shoot him a sharp whisper. “What are you doing?”
He keeps his eyes on the room. “We spoke about alternate restructuring models, ways to modernize without eliminating the program entirely.”
Wilson’s brow lifts. “That so? And what did those models propose?”
Cole pauses. Just enough to make it feel deliberate.
“Combining targeted funding with patient outcome metrics to test a phased transition. In short, finding a middle ground.”
I stare at him. Since when?
“He means I gave him context, not a plan,” I say tightly.
Cole finally looks at me. “You gave me what this board lacks, perspective from a community and healthcare vantage point.”
“Mr. Houston, are you suggesting we delay the vote?” Wilson asks.
“No.” Cole turns to him.
“I’m suggesting that if we’re going to make a permanent decision, we owe it to ourselves and the community to consider every viable option.”
“And are you presenting a viable option?” the CFO asks, eyes narrowing .
Cole pauses for the first time. “I tried. I spent the last few days reaching out to several systems, nonprofit and private, about absorbing the debt. No one can move that fast. Not in a week. And if we vote for a full concierge model today, those conversations go dead. It closes every door but one.”
His voice lowers, just enough to shift the energy in the room.
A long silence stretches.
Wilson adjusts his papers but doesn’t speak. Someone needs to respond, and for a second, it seems like no one will.
Then Grimaldi leans forward. “Dr. Taylor, do you agree with what Mr. Houston is suggesting?”
The question hangs in the air like a trap.
I sit up straighter. “I think he’s right about one thing.
This vote isn’t binary. We’ve spent months pretending it is, but it’s not.
There’s a way to restructure and protect the patients this hospital was built to serve.
I don’t have the authority to make that decision.
But I know what’s at stake if we get it wrong. ”
Wilson taps his pen once. “Noted.”
But I don’t stop. “If you vote today and go full concierge, we lose leverage. We lose partnerships. We lose the ability to walk this back. And we lose the wing that bears my mother’s name, one that’s shown documented success in high-risk populations.”
Cole finally sits.
And I finally look at him.
I still don’t know if he’s trying to save the hospital or save face. But in this moment, he’s given me a chance to fight.
The CFO frowns. “That’s not sustainable long-term. We’ve run the numbers.”
“Then keep it short-term,” Cole replies, calm but firm .
Someone I don't know speaks up. "The bank is calling for it to be paid in full. The LLC that is buying the debt has given us a deadline. We don't have time to do a short-term solution."
"I've been in touch and they've agreed to give the hospital more time to find a solution that works for the patients and the bottom line."
"What are you suggesting?"
“Are you saying we buy time and let Dr. Taylor lead a subcommittee to develop a sustainable plan. At least see what preserving that wing could look like in practice,” someone I don't recognize says.
Maybe the tide is turning, something Cole told me was impossible.
There’s a moment of silence.
He’s not pleading, not really. But it’s close. And I know, because I know him now, that this isn’t just a performance. It’s a risk.
Wilson adjusts his glasses. “Mr. Houston, are you formally proposing an amendment to today’s motion?”
“No, not formally. But I wanted to raise it if someone else wants to propose the amendment,” Cole says.
Then, finally, he sits.
No one moves.
Wilson clears his throat. “Then let’s proceed with the vote.”
I blink hard, trying to anchor myself. My fingers dig into my chair. The floor might as well be water.
Cole stares across the table at nothing, his expression blank. But I see the tension in his jaw, the pulse at his temple. I see the part of him that wants to turn this whole thing around.
Wilson glances down at the agenda. “All in favor of the proposed restructuring? ”
Hands lift one by one.
The CFO.
Grimaldi.
Two of the suits I don’t know by name, but recognize from budget meetings.
Dad lifts his hand. I flinch. I know he hates this, but he warned me. Said it was coming no matter how much we fought it.
And then?—
Cole raises his hand.
I don’t breathe. I don’t move. I just stare.
Wilson nods slowly, tallying. “All opposed?”
Three hands. Not enough.
“Motion passes,” he says. His voice is steady. Almost too casual, like he isn’t gutting the soul of the hospital with those words.
The room shifts. People reach for water, lean back in their chairs. Just like that, it’s over. Business as usual.
I push back from the table. My chair screeches against the tile.
Cole’s eyes meet mine across the polished wood.
There’s no victory in them. No gloating. Only something bleak and hollow, like he just watched something inside him crack.
I stand.
“Dr. Taylor,” Wilson says, but I don’t wait.
I leave.
Out the doors, down the hall, past the portraits of former chiefs of surgery and bullshit plaques. I feel like I’m moving underwater, arms heavy, lungs tight.
Footsteps behind me. I don’t need to look.
“Sam—” he says.
I stop, turning so fast he nearly collides with me.
“You raised your hand,” I say. The words slice out of me. “You sat there and talked about context and clarity and not treating this like a binary decision. And then you raised your fucking hand.”
“I didn’t have a choice.”
“There’s always a choice.”
“I gave them a chance to amend. I made space for someone to propose a hybrid?—”
“But you didn’t.”
He hesitates. “It wouldn’t have passed.”
“Maybe not,” I snap. “But at least you wouldn’t have been the one to kill it.”
His jaw tightens.
I shake my head. “Don’t say anything else. Don’t try to explain. Just go vote for your next hospital or hotel or whatever the hell you’re buying next.”
I turn to leave.
“Sam.”
I pause.
His voice is low, rough. “You said I didn’t fight for you. I did.”
I don’t turn around. “Not hard enough.”
I keep walking.
And this time, he doesn’t follow.