Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
MIREYA
The coffee maker beeped sharply at six in the morning.
I shuffled into the kitchen wearing threadbare pajama pants and an old college shirt, my hair pulled into a messy knot. The penthouse felt hushed and peaceful at this hour. Only the hum of the city stirring beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows.
It had been two weeks since I moved in and it was starting to feel less foreign. Less like I was intruding on someone else’s life.
I poured coffee into my favorite mug, the blue one with the chipped handle that Emma insisted I claim as mine.
Riven had already left for his run. He did that every morning without fail, like his internal clock was set to military precision.
I sipped my coffee and watched the city wake below. Cars began their slow crawl through downtown streets. People lived their normal lives in apartments I couldn't even dream of affording on my own.
“Is there still some juice?”
I turned to find Emma standing in the doorway wearing pajamas covered with cartoon cats, her dark hair sticking out in approximately twelve different directions. She yawned so widely I could see her molars.
“Good morning to you, too,” I greeted, grinning.
"Morning isn't good until I've had fresh-squeezed orange juice." She stumbled to the counter and grabbed a glass. "Why are you up so early?"
"Couldn't sleep." I filled her glass with the juice I'd prepared earlier.
Her eyes narrowed. “Again? That’s the third time this week.”
“Just restless.”
"Mm-hmm." She took a long sip and smiled blissfully. "This is perfect. You make it better than anyone." She hopped onto the counter and swung her legs. "So what's keeping you awake?"
“Nothing specific.”
“Liar.”
I looked at her pointedly. "I'm not lying."
"You absolutely are. Your left eye does this twitchy thing." She grinned. "It's okay. I won't push. Not yet, anyway."
We sat in comfortable quiet. This had become our routine: early mornings in the kitchen before Riven returned. Emma would talk about books she was reading or complain about chemistry homework. I would listen, trying not to think about how temporary all of this was.
“He’s been stress-baking,” Emma said suddenly.
“What?”
"Riven. He's been stress-baking at night when you're on your hospital shifts. Made three batches of cookies this week. All complete disasters." She counted on her fingers. "He really can't bake, but he keeps trying anyway."
I blinked. “When was this?”
“When you were on night shifts. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday.” She took another sip. “Chocolate chip cookies Monday, burned them. Sugar cookies Tuesday, burned again. Oatmeal cookies Wednesday, not burned, but tasted like cardboard.”
I could not find the problem with what she said. “Maybe he just wanted cookies?”
“He doesn’t even eat them. He just bakes and stares at them like they personally insulted him.” She looked at me over her glass with knowing eyes. “Also, he asked me what groceries we needed yesterday.”
“That’s normal. He lives here.”
“Riven has never asked about groceries in his life. We always have someone shopping.” She swung her legs with more force. “And he asked what kind of tea you like. Very casually. Like he just thought about it.”
My heart skipped oddly. “He was probably just being polite.”
“Riven is never polite. He’s efficient and practical.” She grinned wickedly. “He also asked what time you get off tomorrow. And which days you have free next week. He’s suddenly very interested in your schedule.”
“Emma.”
“I’m just saying. The man who barely notices when we’re out of milk suddenly cares about tea and work schedules.” She drained her juice. “Interesting change.”
I sighed. “There’s no change.”
Emma shrugged. "If you say so."
“Stop looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you know things I don’t.”
“Oh, I definitely know things you don’t.” She jumped off the counter. “You’ll figure it out eventually.”
She walked back and disappeared to her room, leaving me standing there with warm cheeks and tangled thoughts.
The elevator chimed softly, and Riven stepped through the door.
I stopped mid-sip. He was sweaty, his shirt clinging to his broad chest and shoulders. His dark hair was damp, pushed back from his forehead, making him look like he was modeling for a power drink or something. His flushed face made his steel-gray eyes stand out even more.
I quickly returned my gaze to my coffee mug when he walked to the fridge to pick up a water bottle. I heard him twist off the cap, but kept my eyes on my drink.
He moved past me to throw away the cap, his arm brushing mine ever so lightly.
The contact was brief but my skin burned almost instantly, heat crawling up my neck and cheek.
"Sorry," he said, his voice low and rough from exertion. He stepped back to give me space.
But I had seen it. That flicker in his eyes before he looked away. His gaze dropped to my mouth and snapped back up like he caught himself doing something forbidden.
"It's fine," I managed, forcing words past the sudden tightness in my throat.
He nodded once, grabbed his water bottle, and walked toward his room without another word.
I stood there with my coffee, trying to remember how to breathe normally.
“Told you.”
I jumped. Emma peeked around the corner, grinning like she'd just won the lottery.
“There’s nothing—”
“You’re blushing.”
“I’m not—”
“You absolutely are.” She returned to the kitchen. “Your face is red. You can’t even look at me.”
“That’s because you’re being ridiculous.”
“I'm being observant." She leaned against the counter. “He looks at you like you're the only person in the room. You look at him like you’re trying hard not to look at him. Honestly, it’s painful to watch.”
“Emma—”
“And neither of you will do anything about it because you’re both emotionally constipated and terrible with feelings.”
I choked on my coffee. “Emotionally constipated?”
“Did I stutter?” Emma blinked innocently.
“Where did you even learn that phrase?”
“The internet. Also my therapist uses it. Don’t change the subject.” She crossed her arms. “You like him.”
I shook my head. “I work for him.”
“That’s not denial.”
“It's a statement of fact.”
“You live in his house. Take care of his sister. Make him coffee exactly how he likes even though you pretend you don’t notice. You laugh at his bad jokes even when they’re not funny. Yo—”
“Okay.” I raised my hand in surrender. “Stop.”
She smiled victoriously. “You’re not denying it.”
“I’m not confirming it either.”
“You don’t need to. I have eyes.” She grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl. “Just so you know, if anything happened between you and Riven, I’d be fine with it.”
My chest twisted. “Nothing will happen.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s complicated.”
“Everything is complicated. That’s not a reason.”
“Emma—”
“I’m just saying. You’re both miserable and you make each other less miserable. That’s good enough for me.” She bit into her apple. “But what do I know? I’m only a fifteen-year-old who’s emotionally intelligent.”
She left before I could formulate a response.
I stood alone in the kitchen with my coffee and far too many thoughts crowding my mind.
I clocked into the hospital around noon for my shift. I was choosing which coffee to get from the cafeteria when footsteps stopped behind me.
“Mireya Rosen?”
I turned to find a man in an expensive tailored suit. He looked familiar even though I'd never met him. His dark hair was graying at the temples, but he wore a confident smile.
“Yes?” I replied cautiously.
"August Cross." He extended his hand. "Riven's uncle. I run St. Catherine's Private Hospital across town."
My stomach dropped. This was the uncle. The one who'd cornered Riven about the inheritance, who represented everything Riven wanted nothing to do with.
"Nice to meet you," I said carefully, shaking his hand.
“I’ve heard good things about you from several attending surgeons.” He leaned casually against the doorframe. “I’m expanding my cardiac unit and am looking for skilled surgical staff. I’d like to offer you a position.”
My brain stuttered to a complete halt. "A position?"
“RNFA in our cardiac unit. Of course, better pay and hours than here. There will be opportunities for advanced training and specialized cases you wouldn’t see in a general hospital.” He pulled a card from his pocket. “We could use someone with your skill set.”
I took the card automatically, staring at the embossed logo, the prestigious address.
"I don't know what to say."
“Say you’ll think about it.” He smiled. “No pressure. The offer stands whenever you’re ready. Call me when you've made a decision."
He walked away before I could respond, leaving me standing there holding the card like it might explode.
August Cross just offered me a position in a specialized cardiac unit, with better pay and opportunities to grow.
It was everything I had ever wanted.
So why did my hands feel icy cold?
The afternoon dragged on and I busied myself, trying not to overthink my encounter with Riven's uncle.
I went home as soon as my shift ended and found Emma in the living room watching a baking competition show, yelling at the contestants about their technique.
“You can’t overmix! Why are you overmixing?!” She glanced up. “Hey! You’re home early.”
“Slow day.” I dropped my bag. “Where’s Riven?”
“He had some stuff to do. He said he’d be back later.” She paused the show. “You okay? You look off.”
I sat next to her, pulling my knees up to my chest. “Someone offered me a job today.”
Emma’s eyebrows shot up. “A job? Like a different job?”
"Yeah. At a private hospital. Cardiac specialty unit. Better pay. Better everything, basically."
"Oh." Her face fell for a split second before she forced brightness. "That's great."
“Emma—”
"No, seriously. That's amazing. You should totally take it." Her voice was too high, too cheerful. "When would you start?"
“I don’t know. I haven’t decided yet.”
“But you’re going to take it, right? I mean, it's better pay, better opportunities. Why wouldn’t you?”
I looked at her—at the way her fingers curled tight around the remote, the brittle edge to her smile.
"Hey." I touched her arm gently. "Nothing's decided yet. Okay?"
"Okay." She nodded quickly. "But you should take it. If it's what you want. I mean, you deserve good things."
I pressed my lips together. “What I want is complicated.”
“Everything’s complicated.” She smiled, echoing her words from this morning. “But you deserve good things even if they’re complicated.”
She resumed her show, but I sat there beside her, my chest tightening with each breath.
That night, I called Lyra. She answered on the second ring, loud music blaring in the background.
“Rey! Hold on!” The noise got quieter and I heard a door close. “Okay. Sorry. Dorm room party. What’s up?”
“Just wanted to check in. How are your classes going?”
“Classes are great. I’m acing everything. Professor Michaels says I have a natural instinct for patient care.” She sounded so happy and proud. “How’s the job? How’s living with Dr. Tall, Dark, and Brooding?”
I’d told her about moving in with Riven a few weeks back when she asked me why Mom was with Aunt Evelyn and not home. I didn’t want to tell her anything about what was happening, but Mom had already given her part of it.
I smiled despite myself. "It's fine."
“Just fine? Come on. Give me details.”
“There aren’t any details.”
“Liar. I can hear it in your voice. Something happened.”
I hesitated. “Someone offered me a different job today.”
“What?!” She shrieked loud enough that I pulled the phone from my ear. “Oh my god! That’s amazing! What kind of job? Where? How much does it pay? Tell me everything!”
"Private cardiac hospital. Specialized unit."
“Reya, that’s incredible! This is exactly what you’ve been working toward!” Lyra paused. “You’re going to take it, right?”
My grip tightened around my phone. “I don’t know.”
“What do you mean you don’t know? This is huge!”
“I know it’s huge. I just need to think about it.”
“What’s there to think about?”
“A lot of things. Mom. Where she’d stay. How I’d move everything. Whether I can even afford a new place yet with just barely any savings.” I rubbed my face. “It’s not that simple.”
“Mom’s doing fine with Aunt Evelyn. And you could find a place near the new hospital. Start fresh.” Her voice softened. “This is a good opportunity. You’ve earned this.”
“I know,” I mumbled.
“But?” she probed.
“Nothing. I just need time to figure out the logistics.”
We talked for another twenty minutes. About her classes, campus life, and everything except the real questions lying between us.
When we hung up, I sat in my room staring at August’s card on the nightstand.
Better pay. Better opportunities.
I could finally afford a proper apartment.
Get Mom out of Aunt Evelyn's crowded house and give her the space and quiet she desperately needed for recovery.
I could start paying down the medical debt instead of watching it grow.
Maybe even save money instead of living perpetually paycheck to paycheck.
This was what I needed. What I'd been working toward for years.
So why did the thought of leaving make my stomach ache?
I thought about logistics. Finding an apartment near St. Catherine's, moving the few belongings still in storage from our old place.
I thought about telling Mom. She’d be proud and relieved that I finally had something stable and well-paying.
I thought about telling Riven…
My chest ached.
I could already hear how it would go.
“It’s a good opportunity,” he would say calmly and measured. “You should take it.”
No hesitation. No reaction. Just that same controlled tone like it didn’t matter either way.
Or worse–he would just nod once and say, “When do you start?” like I was any other staff transition.
Or would he ask me to stay?
I shook my head. That was ridiculous. He’d given me a job and a place to live when I had nothing. He didn’t owe me anything. I didn’t owe him anything either.
This was business. Professional. Temporary from the beginning.
So why did it feel like so much more than that now?
I lay in bed staring at the ceiling in the darkness.
Riven's room was still empty. He wasn't home yet. Part of me wanted to wait up, to hear his footsteps in the hallway, to know he'd made it back safely.
But that was ridiculous. He was my employer. His schedule wasn't my concern.
I rolled onto my side and pulled the blanket higher, closing my eyes.
But all I could think about was how, two weeks ago, I had nothing.
And now I had a choice that felt impossible to make.