Chapter 22 Iris
IRIS
I let Mom rest today. Her arthritis is flaring, so I keep the house running without asking her to supervise.
First, I do the laundry, then I wash the dishes after that. I leave everything where she can find it later, unchanged enough not to make her feel replaced.
Then I go and get Dad.
“Come on, Dad,” I say, nudging the bedroom door open. “Hospital day.”
He’s already dressed, sitting on the edge of the bed like he’s negotiating with his own body. Chemo has thinned him out, not just in weight but in momentum. Everything takes longer now. Standing. Walking. Deciding.
“I know,” he says, but he doesn’t move.
I crouch in front of him. “You don’t get to quit on me today.”
That earns me a tired smile. “You always say that.”
“And you always listen,” I say.
He exhales, then pushes himself upright with a grunt of effort. I’m there immediately, steadying his hand while pretending it’s nothing more than habit. We’ve both agreed not to call it help.
“We’re heading out, Mom,” I call as we pass the living room.
She looks up from the couch, a blanket pulled tight around her knees. “Okay, love. Call me if you need anything.”
“I will.” I grab my bag, then pause, scanning the room. “I left the lasagna in the fridge. Just in case we’re back late.”
Her face softens, the way it always does when she realizes I’ve thought three steps ahead of her. “Oh, Iris. You’re a godsend.”
I smile, already ushering Dad toward the door. There’s no time to linger on gratitude. We’ve got somewhere to be.
Traffic tightens as we near Memorial Sloan Kettering Cancer Center. Yellow cabs nose in, and delivery trucks idle at the curb. We’re close enough now that I can see the banners ahead, the cross street we always turn on, and the place where I usually start reminding Dad to breathe.
The light changes, and I roll onto the accelerator.
The engine coughs and shudders as though it might cooperate, then dies outright.
“No,” I mutter, already flicking the ignition. Once. Twice. But there’s nothing except a hollow click.
Dad’s hands tighten on his knees. “It’s fine, Pumpkin. We’ve got time.”
“We don’t,” I say, scanning the street.
I throw the hazards on and turn the key again. Still dead.
Horns start up behind us.
“Move it!” someone yells.
“I’m trying,” I fire back, already out of the car and setting my shoulder against the frame and pushing.
Dad shifts like he’s about to help, but I stop him with a look.
Another horn sounds, longer this time.
“Unbelievable,” a man calls from his window. “What’s he doing just sitting there?”
I straighten.
Dad’s voice tightens. “Iris—”
I turn toward the sound. “Say that again.”
The man laughs. “Maybe if he helped instead of playing statue—”
Anger floods through me. “Hey!” I step into the lane. “You don’t get to talk about my dad like that.”
The driver steps out, slams his door, and comes toward me. His face is flushed and ugly, like he thinks this ends well for him.
Then—
“Back off!” a voice growls.
I blink, certain my brain just filled in a face it wanted.
It didn’t.
It’s Marcus Lockwood.
Holy shit.
He comes out of nowhere and everywhere at once. He steps between me and the street without pushing me back, just presence. Then, he lifts one hand toward the driver, his palm out.
The street seems to pause.
“That’s enough,” he says. “Get back in your car.”
The man scoffs. “You can’t tell me—”
Marcus steps closer. Just one pace. “Try me.”
Wisely, the man retreats, climbs back into his car, and then speeds around us.
I stare at Marcus, my breath still sharp in my chest. “I had that.”
“I know,” he says quietly, his eyes still tracking the street. “That’s what worried me.”
Only then do I realize how close he is. I was a disaster in his clinic with Blanket. And now he’s turned up in my life with the same lack of warning.
“You okay?” he asks, turning to Dad now.
Dad peers past him, assessing. “I am. She’s the dangerous one.”
I snort despite myself.
Marcus’s mouth twitches. “I’ve noticed.” He glances at the car, then the hood. “Let’s get you out of the lane,” he says. “I’ll help you push.”
“Dr. Lockwood, I don’t need—”
“I know,” he repeats. “But humor me.”
We push together, traffic parting with a look and a lifted hand. People listen. I tell myself it’s the badge clipped at his waist, the tailored shirt, and the assumption that he belongs here. It’s easier than admitting it might just be him.
Once we’re clear, he turns back to me. “Where are you heading?”
I nod ahead. “The hospital.”
Marcus says, “I can drive you the rest of the way if you want. My car’s right there.”
Dad lifts one shoulder. “I vote we accept the rescue.”
My pride flares, but today is not about me.
“Okay,” I say. “Thank you.”
His car is ridiculous. It’s low, dark, and immaculate. And the door opens far enough that he doesn’t have to twist to get in.
Marcus opens the door for Dad. “Take your time.”
Dad lowers himself in, then looks around. The back seat is wide enough that he can stretch his legs without bracing.
“Well,” he says. “This is nicer than my first apartment.”
Marcus huffs a quiet laugh. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“I’m Ross,” Dad adds, extending a hand.
“Marcus.” He shakes it respectfully. “It’s good to meet you.”
He then closes the door and circles to the driver’s side while I reluctantly take the passenger seat. It would be rude to insist on sitting in the back, and Dad would never let me get away with it.
The car moves smoothly into traffic.
“Is she always like this?” Marcus asks after a moment, glancing my way.
“Stubborn?” Dad says. “Oh yeah. Takes after her mother.”
I roll my eyes, and Marcus smiles.
“I’m sorry to interrupt your day like this, Dr. Lockwood,” I say, embarrassed.
Dad waves it off. “Please. He looks like he needed the excitement.”
Marcus grins. “I really didn’t.”
Dad smiles, satisfied. “You did.”
Marcus laughs properly now, his head tipping back for half a second before he reins it in. “I’m actually headed there. I have a patient this morning.”
I pause. The last time I checked, he was a plastic surgeon. “Oh, you’re an oncologist too?”
“No,” he says, amused, like he’s noticed I’m listening differently now. “I’m assisting with a limb-sparing surgery. The kid had cancer in his knee. He’s twelve, right in the middle of a growth spurt.”
“Oh.” My voice comes out small. “Poor kid.”
“He’s tough,” Marcus says. “And he’s not doing it alone.”
I nod, meaning more than I say.
“And how’s that canine friend of yours?” he asks, his eyes back on the road.
“Blanket?” I shrug. “He’s vanished. But the last time I saw him, he was healthy.”
“Liam did good work, then.”
“He did,” I say. “Very good.”
Marcus swallows but keeps driving.
When he reaches the hospital, he pulls in close to the entrance and helps Dad out. And he listens while Dad thanks him, really thanks him.
“It was good to meet you, Ross,” Marcus says.
“Likewise,” Dad replies. “You’ve got good timing.”
“I’ll take that.” Marcus grins, then glances at me.
“Thank you, Dr. Lockwood,” I say.
“I can ask for help to take care of your car,” he offers.
“No. No. I’ll handle it.”
“You know we left it in a no-standing zone, right?” he tells me.
Oh shit. I can’t lose my car, and we’re already running late.
“Um…yeah, okay,” I mutter. “If you can help, that’d be great.”
“I’ll have someone leave you a message. Where will you be?”
I hum, then answer, “Outpatient pavilion. My dad has chemo today.”
“Okay, then you’ll know which garage they take your car to. Though it means a taxi home.”
“That’s fine,” I say. “I’ve survived worse forms of transportation.”
His mouth twitches. “I suppose my Bentley wasn’t one of them.”
Right. That Bentley, where Blanket, that damn cushion, and I tried to establish dominance in the backseat. Did he really have to go there?
“Thank you, Dr. Lockwood,” I say again and leave it at that.
He nods, then opens his mouth again. “Miss Vaughn—”
The rest doesn’t come, and he drops his gaze to the ground.
“I’d better go,” I say.
“Sure. All the best for today,” he replies.
Then he pivots and heads off. I take Dad’s arm and keep us moving.
Chemo starts the way it always does. Routine, with too much waiting.
I glance at Dad. “You seem…chirpy.”
This is usually the worst part. The beginning, when there’s nothing to do but anticipate.
“He seems like a decent man,” Dad says. “That Dr. Lockwood.”
“He’s just a friend,” I say quickly.
I don’t mean to go there, I really don’t, but the thought barges in anyway.
Billionaire boyfriend.
I scoff at myself. Please. He fit the moment today, but Marcus Lockwood isn’t someone you just hang out with and see where things go. He likes being in charge, or knowing where things are headed, probably before they even start.
Getting close to him feels like it would come with expectations I don’t want to think about yet. Like, somewhere along the way, I’d have to start measuring myself instead of just being myself.
Wait, why am I even thinking about this?
I shut it down, annoyed at myself for letting it go there at all.
Dad pauses, then gives me a look.
I say, “He helped a stray I used to keep company at Hudson River Park.”
Dad nods, unconvinced.
“That’s it,” I add firmly. “End of story.”
He smiles and rests his free hand over mine. He doesn’t argue. He doesn’t need to.
Marcus Lockwood had been a lifesaver today. There’s no other way to put it. He was calm, capable, and not as fake as I’d thought he was on television.
But still.
I don’t want complications.
Marcus is gorgeous. That part is undeniable.
And kind without trying to be, which somehow makes it worse.
But I’m not in the market for dinners that turn into conversations, conversations that turn into introductions, or introductions that require explanations.
I don’t want someone asking where I’m going, why I’m late, or when I’ll be free.
And I’m not na?ve enough to think a man like him, surrounded by beautiful women, lives by professional boundaries alone.
I don’t have space for a man who wants a seat in my life.
Right now, everything I have is spoken for.
“Ms. Vaughn?”
I look up to find a woman standing just outside the room. Her smile is careful and professional. “Could I have a word with you?”
I step into the hallway, and the door clicks shut behind us.
“I’m from finance,” she says gently. “Your father’s account is showing as overdue. We’ve sent a few notices.”
“I know,” I say. “I’m taking care of it.”
She nods, not unkindly, just doing her job. “We’ll need a payment plan confirmation by the end of the week.”
“You’ll have it,” I say. “I promise.”
She thanks me and moves on. By the time I turn back toward Dad’s room, Marcus Lockwood has slipped cleanly out of my thoughts.
There’s work to do, art to finish, money to make, and bills to cover. I don’t get the luxury of wondering what kind of man he might be. Maybe apart from what I’ve already formed in my head.
I need to keep my eyes on the vision that’s kept me moving—on Wolf, on the heat he left behind—for as long as I can.
That’s the only way forward.