Chapter 2
2
Wil
M y feet drag as I push through the hospital doors at the end of a grueling sixteen-hour shift. Every muscle aches, especially my lower back from bending over incubators all night. The fluorescent lights of New York Presbyterian’s NICU have left an imprint behind my eyelids that blinks with each tired step.
I pull my phone from my scrub pocket, wincing at the brightness before adjusting it. Four missed calls from Gisele. A text follows.
ANSWER YOUR PHONE, WILLEMINA! It’s my BIRTHDAY, remember?
Guilt washes over me. I’ve been so wrapped up in work that I completely forgot. Gisele has been my roommate since freshman year of college, the closest thing to family I’ve had since Mom died. She deserves better than a friend who forgets her birthday.
I type a quick reply.
Just got off shift. So sorry. Will pick up something special on way home.
The response is immediate.
Don’t bother. I have plans FOR US tonight. Be ready by 9pm. No excuses.
I groan, already dreading whatever “plans” Gisele has concocted. Her idea of celebration typically involves crowded clubs, expensive cocktails, and staying out until dawn. That’s everything I avoid in my carefully structured life, but it’s her birthday, and after forgetting it, I owe her this much.
The subway ride to our Brooklyn apartment feels endless. I close my eyes, letting the rocking motion nearly lull me to sleep. My mind drifts to baby Emma, the one-pound miracle I’ve been monitoring all week. After a terrifying bradycardia episode yesterday, she stabilized beautifully tonight, her tiny fingers grasping my gloved pinky with surprising strength. These are the moments that make the exhaustion worthwhile.
Fresh air hits my face as I climb the subway stairs, grounding me back in reality. Our apartment is six blocks away, and each step requires conscious effort. I stop at the corner bakery, purchasing Gisele’s favorite chocolate croissants as a peace offering, then continue dragging myself home.
Inside our apartment, blessed silence greets me. Gisele must have already left for work. She waitresses during lunch and dinner shifts and sometimes tends bar during the late shift at one of those trendy speakeasies in Manhattan, where cocktails cost more than my hourly wage. I kick off my sneakers, dropping my bag and the bakery box on the counter, then head straight for the shower.
Hot water cascades over my tight shoulders, washing away the antiseptic hospital smell. I close my eyes, imagining the stress flowing down the drain. Fifteen minutes later, wrapped in my oldest, softest robe, I feel almost human again.
I move to the kitchen window where my collection of plants basks in the afternoon sunlight. This small garden is my sanctuary, my connection to the mother who taught me to nurture growing things. I check each pot methodically. Basil needs water, the succulents are fine, and the peace lily has a new bud forming. At the center sits my prized possession, which is a rose bush grown from a cutting of Mom’s garden, its deep crimson blooms like a vivid memory of her hands guiding mine in the soft earth.
“You’re looking healthy today,” I whisper, touching a velvet petal. Mom always said talking to plants helps them grow, though my nursing education suggests it’s more about the carbon dioxide from breath than the words themselves. Still, the ritual comforts me.
Sleep pulls at my consciousness, an irresistible gravity after so many hours awake. It’s a little past eleven, and I set my alarm for seven hours. That’s enough to function but still have time to prepare for Gisele’s mysterious evening plans. I fall into bed, asleep before my head fully settles on the pillow.
Before I know it, the alarm blares, yanking me from deep slumber. For a moment, I’m disoriented, unsure if it’s morning or evening, but the clock reads 6:30 p.m. I’ve slept for seven hours straight but feel like I need seven more.
My bedroom door flies open without warning. Gisele bounces in wearing a silver sequined dress that catches the light with every movement, her red hair styled in loose waves that frame her heart-shaped face.
“Happy birthday to me!” She twirls, the dress sparkling like she’s captured pieces of the night sky. “Oh, good, you’re awake. We have exactly two and a half hours to transform you from zombie nurse to bombshell.”
I sit up, rubbing sleep from my eyes. “Bombshell seems ambitious. Where exactly are we going that requires this level of...” I gesture vaguely at her ensemble.
“Eclipse.” Gisele grins with excitement. “Jake got us on the list. Do you know how impossible that is? People wait months to get in!”
My stomach drops. Eclipse. The notorious nightclub frequented by celebrities, finance bros, and if rumors are true, organized crime figures looking to flaunt their wealth. Exactly the kind of place I avoid. “Gisele...” I start carefully. “I don’t think that’s my scene. Maybe you should take someone else who’d appreciate it more. I could make us dinner here instead. “
“No.” She crosses her arms, all playfulness vanishing. “Wil, I love you, but you haven’t left this apartment for anything but work or groceries in months. It’s like you’re hiding from life itself.”
“I’m not hiding,” I protest weakly. “I’m just... focused on my career.”
“You’re twenty-seven, not seventy. One night out won’t kill you.” She sits beside me on the bed, her expression softening. “Look, I know the hospital work is important to you. I know those babies need you, but sometimes, I worry you use it as an excuse to avoid living.”
Her words hit uncomfortably close to home. Since Mom died, I’ve built walls around myself, constructing a life of predictable routines, where nothing can surprise or hurt me.
Work, home, and plants, then sleep.
Repeatable. Safe. Controlled.
“Remember when we first met in college?” Gisele continues. “You were shy but still adventurous. You’d try anything once. What happened to that girl?”
“She grew up,” I mumble. “Responsibility happened.”
“Bullshit. Grief happened, and I’ve given you space for that, but it’s been ten years, Wil.” She takes my hands in hers. “This is my one birthday wish. For my best friend to come dance with me at the hottest club in Manhattan and remember what it feels like to be young and carefree for one night.”
Put like that, how can I refuse? Besides, I still feel guilty about forgetting her birthday. “Fine. One night, but I’m not wearing anything ridiculous.”
She flashes a victorious grin. “We’ll see about that.” She bounces off the bed and disappears, returning moments later with an armful of clothing. “I’ve been preparing for this negotiation. Options.”
The next two hours are a whirlwind of rejected outfits, makeup application, and Gisele’s running commentary on my “criminally neglected” potential. I finally agree to a black dress that’s more revealing than anything I’d choose for myself but not completely outside my comfort zone. The fabric hugs curves I usually hide under shapeless scrubs, stopping mid-thigh in a way that makes me constantly want to tug it lower.
“Stop fidgeting.” Gisele slaps my hand away from the hemline. “You look hot! Those legs need to see daylight occasionally. Or nightclub light, whatever.”
I turn skeptically toward the mirror. The stranger looking back at me is undeniably more polished than usual. Gisele has somehow tamed my unruly brown waves into something sleek and intentional. The minimal makeup emphasizes my green eyes, making them appear larger and more dramatic.
“I feel like I’m playing dress-up,” I say, wobbling slightly in the borrowed heels.
“That’s the point of going out.” Gisele applies another layer of something glossy to her lips. “We get to be whoever we want for a night. No responsibilities, and no expectations.”
The concept is foreign to me. I’ve spent so long being exactly who I’m expected to be—reliable Willemina, dedicated nurse and responsible adult—that I’m not sure I remember how to be anyone else.
We grab a rideshare to Manhattan, Gisele chattering excitedly about the celebrities who frequent Eclipse while I nod and try to ignore the growing anxiety in my chest. The car drops us in the Meatpacking District, where a line of impossibly beautiful people stretches down the block outside an unmarked door.
“We’re going to be waiting for hours,” I mutter, already dreaming of my bed.
“No, we’re not.” She grabs my hand, bypassing the line entirely and approaching a mountain of a man with an earpiece and clipboard. “Gisele Nelson and Willemina Lamb. Jake McAllister’s guests.”
The bouncer scans his list, face impassive. After an excruciating moment, he nods once and unhooks the velvet rope. “Welcome to Eclipse. Enjoy your evening.”
Inside, I’m immediately assaulted by sensory overload. The music pulses so loudly I feel it in my chest, competing with the rapid beating of my heart. Crystal chandeliers hang from vaulted ceilings, casting prismatic light across the crowded space. Beautiful people move like exotic creatures through the artificial fog, drinks in hand, and laughing at jokes I can’t hear.
“Isn’t this amazing?” she shouts over the music, her face alight with excitement.
I nod automatically, though “amazing” isn’t the word I’d choose. “Overwhelming” feels more accurate. The air is thick with expensive perfume and cologne, making it difficult to breathe. Every surface seems designed for Instagram rather than actual comfort, with velvet ropes, gold-trimmed tables, and champagne towers that make me feel gauche.
“Let’s get drinks.” Gisele pulls me toward the crowded bar, expertly navigating the press of bodies with the confidence of someone who belongs in this world of excess.
While she orders something complicated and undoubtedly overpriced, I scan the room, feeling increasingly like an impostor. In one corner, a roped-off section hosts what appears to be a minor celebrity and entourage. In another, finance types in expensive suits throw money around with casual disregard, ordering bottles with sparklers that servers parade through the crowd.
“Here.” Gisele presses a crystal glass into my hand. “It’s called ‘Midnight Sin.’ Fitting, right?”
I take a cautious sip, surprised by the pleasant balance of sweet and bitter. “It’s good.”
“Of course, it is. It costs twenty-eight dollars.” She clinks her glass against mine. “To my birthday and your reintroduction to nightlife.”
I manage a smile, determined to at least appear to be enjoying myself for her sake. The alcohol helps, spreading warmth through my limbs and softening the sharp edges of my anxiety. We find a small high-top table to claim as home base, watching the crowd grow thicker as the night progresses.
“Jake?” Gisele suddenly squeals, waving frantically at a tall man in a blue blazer making his way toward us. “You made it.”
The mysterious Jake turns out to be her latest conquest. He’s handsome in that generic, Wall Street way, with perfect teeth and an expensive watch that’s subtly flashy. He kisses Gisele’s cheek, then mine, his cologne overwhelming at close range.
“Birthday girl.” He hands Gisele a small gift box wrapped in silver paper. “Sorry I’m late. Client dinner ran long.”
“You’re here now,” she says, already tearing into the package. Inside is a delicate bracelet that she immediately fawns over, allowing Jake to fasten it around her wrist with obvious satisfaction.
I sip my drink, feeling increasingly like a fifth wheel as they fall into conversation filled with inside jokes and lingering touches. After finishing a second overpriced cocktail, I touch Gisele’s arm. “I’m going to find the restroom. Be right back.”
She nods, barely looking away from Jake. “Take your time.”
The bathroom proves to be as pretentious as the rest of the club, with attendants offering perfume and hand towels, fresh flowers on marble countertops, and stalls with actual doors that reach the floor. I take longer than necessary, fixing my lipstick and adjusting my dress, delaying my return to awkward fifth-wheel status.
When I finally emerge, the club has grown even more crowded. The dance floor is now packed with writhing bodies moving to a pulsing electronic beat. I scan for our table, but Gisele and Jake are nowhere to be seen. Great. She’s abandoned me on her own birthday.
I check my phone, but there are no messages, of course. Typical Gisele, caught up in the moment without considering others. I debate texting her but decide against it. She deserves her birthday fun, and I’d only be dragging her down with my discomfort anyway.
Unsure what to do next, I make my way back to the bar, intending to nurse one more drink before calling it a night. The crowd seems to part and reform around me like water, as everyone else moves with ease while I stand out as clearly as a sore thumb. A group of men in expensive suits eye me as I pass, one nudging another and nodding in my direction. I quicken my pace, gaze fixed on the floor, and praying they don’t approach.
In my haste to escape their attention, I don’t see the man stepping into my path until it’s too late. I collide with a solid wall of chest, my small clutch purse falling to the floor as I stumble backward, apologies already forming on my lips. “I’m so sorry, I wasn’t looking. “
The words die as I look up—and up—into the most intense eyes I’ve ever seen. Dark brown with flecks of amber, they study me with an unsettling focus beneath straight brows. The man towers over me even in my heels, his presence commanding in a way that has nothing to do with his height and everything to do with the aura of authority he exudes.
He’s older than the finance boys—mid-thirties perhaps—and dressed in a perfectly tailored suit that screams old money rather than new wealth. His features are striking rather than conventionally handsome, with a strong jaw, prominent nose, and full lips pressed into a neutral line. Not a face that smiles often, I think automatically.
I realize I’m staring and snap my mouth shut, embarrassment heating my cheeks. The stranger bends to retrieve my purse, the movement graceful despite his size. When he straightens, there’s something in his expression I can’t quite place. Curiosity, perhaps?
“Are you hurt?” he asks, his voice deep and lightly accented. Russian, maybe?
“No, I’m fine. Just embarrassed.” I take the purse from his outstretched hand, careful not to touch his fingers. “It’s crowded, and I’m not really...” I gesture vaguely at our surroundings, unable to articulate that I don’t belong here, that this world of beautiful people and expensive drinks is as foreign to me as Mars.
But somehow, he seems to understand. His expression shifts subtly, interest replacing polite concern. “First time at Eclipse?”
I nod, wondering why this intimidating stranger is bothering with conversation. Men who look like him don’t typically notice women who look like me, especially in places like this, where models and socialites are a dime a dozen.
“It’s my roommate’s birthday,” I say, unsure why I’m sharing this information. “She dragged me here, then promptly disappeared with some guy in a blue blazer.”
A brief smile transforms his severe features, revealing perfect teeth and unexpected laugh lines around his eyes. “Not a fan of nightclubs?”
“Is it that obvious?” I tug self-consciously at my borrowed dress.
“You look like you’re planning an escape route.” His gaze is penetrating but not unkind. “Most people here are trying to be seen. You’re trying to be invisible.”
The accuracy of his assessment is disconcerting. I shift uncomfortably, ready to make my excuses and retreat, when he gestures toward the bar.
“Let me buy you a drink,” he offers. “To apologize for standing in your path.”
“You don’t need to apologize. I walked into you.”
“Then let me buy you a drink because you look like you need one more than anyone else in this place.” Another almost-smile, this one reaching his eyes and transforming them from intimidating to almost warm.
Against all my better judgment, I find myself nodding. “Okay. One drink.”
He guides me toward the bar, not touching me but somehow clearing a path through the crowd with his presence alone. People step aside automatically, some with flickers of recognition or wariness in their eyes, and I wonder briefly who he is. Someone important, clearly.
“I’m Maxim,” he says as we reach the bar, extending a hand.
I take it, noting the strength in his grip, and the calluses that suggest he does more than push papers despite the expensive suit. “Willemina, but everyone calls me Wil.”
“Willemina,” he repeats, ignoring my correction, my full name sounding strangely formal and intimate in his accented voice. “What are you drinking?”
I glance at the elaborate cocktail menu and feel immediately overwhelmed. “Just a gin and tonic, please.”
He signals the bartender, who appears instantly despite the crowd of people trying to order. “Gin and tonic for the lady. Stolichnaya, neat, for me.”
The drinks arrive with remarkable speed. I take a sip, grateful for the simple, familiar taste after the overly sweet concoctions Gisele ordered earlier.
“So, Willemina…” Maxim leans against the bar, giving me his full attention in a way that’s both flattering and slightly unnerving. “What do you do when you’re not being dragged to nightclubs by birthday roommates?”
“I’m a nurse in the NICU at New York Presbyterian.”
Something shifts in his expression. Surprise, or maybe respect? “Premature babies?”
I nod, warming to the topic. “The smallest, sickest ones. It’s challenging but rewarding. Every day is different.” I stop, realizing I’m about to launch into nursing talk. “Sorry, not exactly exciting nightclub conversation.”
“On the contrary,” he says, his intense gaze never leaving my face. “It’s the most interesting thing I’ve heard all night. You save lives while the rest of us...” He gestures at the excess surrounding us. “Waste them.”
The statement carries a weight that seems personal, almost confessional. I study him over the rim of my glass, sensing depths beneath the expensive suit and commanding presence. “What about you?” I ask. “What do you do?”
A shadow passes over his features, there and gone so quickly I might have imagined it. “I’m in business. Import-export, primarily. Nothing as meaningful as your work.”
There’s something rehearsed about the answer, but before I can consider it further, the music changes, the beat becoming more insistent. Maxim sets down his empty glass.
“Would you like to dance?” he asks, surprising me.
I haven’t properly danced in years, and the crowded floor of beautiful people is intimidating, but something about tonight—the alcohol, the strange circumstances, and this enigmatic man’s unexpected attention—makes me reckless. “Why not?” I finish my drink in a single swallow, the gin burning pleasantly down my throat. “Fair warning though. I’m terrible at it.”
Maxim’s lips curve into another of those smiles that transform his severe features. “Then we’ll be terrible together.”
He leads the way to the dance floor, and I follow, thinking this is either the most interesting night I’ve had in years, or the beginning of a cautionary tale Gisele will tell at my funeral. Either way, for the first time in longer than I can remember, I feel fully, terrifyingly alive.