Chapter 22
Caroline Atkins?
The New Cinderella Story! Nurse Snatches Vanderbilt Billionaire!
Who is Caroline Atkins and how did she land Alex Vanderbilt?
Trauma Love: Inside the Missing Heir ER Romance!
It’s fucking everywhere. I can’t breathe without some news outlet shoving a mic down my throat or trying to flash a camera up my goddamn scrubs.
I can’t go to the bodega without seeing my face printed next to a smug-ass Alex in Tom Ford, and the worst part?
They always use my least flattering photos.
Like, hello, maybe don’t use the one where I look like I just lost a wrestling match with a defibrillator.
But yeah. Apparently the whole world now knows I’m marrying Alexander Vanderbilt. And my life? Has gone completely off the rails.
Reporters broke into my Queens apartment.
Broke the fuck in. Just to get footage of how the “mysterious nurse” rescued the amnesiac heir.
Like it’s some tragic-ass Nicholas Sparks plot.
You know what they got? A thrift store couch, an overused microwave, and a tragic secondhand toaster that only toasts one side. Congrats.
Alex? He lost his shit. Like full Vanderbilt Wrath?? levels. Now I can’t even go take a piss without a bodyguard lurking nearby like I’m about to be assassinated by a jealous Upper East Side ex-fiancée.
My landlord tried to double my rent overnight—because “you’re a celebrity now.”
Celebrity my ass. I still have ramen noodles in my cabinets.
Nurses I barely said hi to in the breakroom are suddenly giving “exclusive insights” about my “gritty compassion” and “undeniable connection” with Alex.
Bitch, you stole my yogurt once. You don’t know me.
Then came the woman who literally tackled me in the ER.
Tackled. Like a linebacker. Screaming that I stole her man.
The audacity. I bit my tongue, walked into the break room, wrote my resignation letter on a napkin, and said, fuck it.
I can’t work like this. I can’t cause lockdowns in the trauma ward because some unhinged Alex fangirl wants to throw hands.
So now? I’m sitting in the penthouse. A literal penthouse.
Sorting through my shit. I’ve filled five trash bags already and I’m not even halfway.
Because really—what the fuck do I need with a broken toaster or socks with holes if my future husband owns a smart mirror that compliments me when I brush my hair?
My life is upside down. My future in-laws probably want to skin me alive. I’m on the front page of The Post in an old pair of Target scrubs and my hair in a bun held together by a pen. And yet? Somehow? I wouldn’t trade this for anything. Because I might be drowning in tabloids and boxed-up chaos…
But that stupid, stubborn, overprotective man loves me.
And somehow, that makes the whole wild, upside-down, batshit-insane world feel right.
I’m standing in front of his closet—our closet now—trying to find space between his tailored suits and overpriced button-downs for my humble collection of faded T-shirts and two-dollar tank tops.
The discrepancy is fucking criminal. I’ve got a row of Walmart tees with stretched-out necklines, and this man has an entire drawer just for watches.
Watches that could probably buy a modest duplex in Brooklyn.
He pads into the room barefoot, shirtless, smelling like silk sheets and danger, and wraps his arms around me from behind. His chin rests on my shoulder like it belongs there—like I belong here—and it still stuns the breath out of me.
“That’s all of it?” he asks, low and warm against my ear.
I nod. “Yeah. Didn’t see the point in keeping a second-hand toaster with a vendetta.”
His laugh rumbles against my back. “RIP to your one-sided bagels.”
“They were always crunchy on the left and raw on the right. Like a metaphor for my entire pre-you existence.”
He turns me around, fingers skimming under the hem of my T-shirt. “You know I’m getting you the most state-of-the-art toaster in the city, right? One with WiFi. And AI. That shit’s gonna read your mood and crisp accordingly.”
I raise an eyebrow. “If a toaster knows when I’m PMSing and brings me a bagel and a heating pad, I’m marrying the toaster instead.”
He grins. “I’ll be sure to out-toast it every morning.”
“Good,” I say, looping my arms around his neck, “Because you might be a billionaire, but I’m still a woman of simple needs.”
His hands slide down to my waist, pulling me in, smug and smugger. “You only need one Vanderbilt.”
I bite my lip. “Just the one with the good dick and the trauma.”
His eyes go molten. “You’re such a brat.”
“And you fucking love it.”
He kisses me, hard, like he wants to toast me himself.
Yeah.
I don’t need a toaster. I’ve got a whole man. And apparently, a man with plans.
He pulls back, brushing my hair behind my ear like he’s trying to soften the blow. “Are you mad?” he asks, voice quieter now. “About the whole thing… Like, I know you liked your job, and now...”
I sigh, the breath heavy in my chest. “It’s not great,” I admit, twisting the hem of his shirt between my fingers.
“But I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t thought about it. Being a nurse in a public hospital and also your wife? That combo was never gonna be subtle.”
I give him a look. “You kinda torpedoed my quiet little life the second you waltzed in with your memory loss and perfect jawline.”
He winces a little. “I’m sorry you had to resign…”
“Yeah,” I nod. “Me too. But I’m not gonna wallow. I just need to figure out what’s next.”
His lips twitch. That’s the look. The one that says he’s about to drop some bullshit with full confidence.
“I can help with that,” he says, already grinning like the smug little billionaire menace he is.
I narrow my eyes. “Help how, Vanderbilt? And if you say ‘personal nurse’ I will punch you in the dick.”
He snorts. “Tempting. But no. I mean it. There’s this nursing project. My dad greenlit it like a decade ago when he wanted to look generous for PR. ‘Give back to the city’ and all that performative altruistic bullshit. But the thing’s been dead in the water ever since. Half-assed management,
no follow-through. Just enough to make a headline and bounce.”
I stare. “And?”
“And now I’m the one who holds the checkbook,” he says, smug as hell. “So I say we bring it back. We fix it. Proper staffing, real funding, actual impact. And who better to lead it than my smart, foul-mouthed, compassionate, terrifyingly competent fiancée?”
My brain does a double-take. “Wait— you’re serious? Like a real project? With funding? Autonomy? Not just a fancy way of keeping me busy while you play CEO?”
His eyes flash. “Serious as a cardiac arrest. You’d run the show. Top to bottom. Real patients. Real nurses. A clinic with actual fucking teeth. And you—” he pulls me in by the waist, “—would finally get to tell everyone what to do. Legally.”
I pause. “So… I get to boss people around. With a salary. And your money.”
“And my admiration. And occasional inappropriate groping in the office if you allow it.”
I smirk. “Fuck me, I might actually say yes.”
He grins wider. “That’s my girl.”
God help the city of New York.
Carol Atkins is coming for your broken healthcare system—with designer coffee and a billionaire in her back pocket.
And although that shiny, ridiculous part of our life is going great—me in his closet, us planning a wedding where we’ll probably forget to invite half the guest list because we’re too busy screwing on silk sheets—there’s another part that’s still a flaming pile of emotional garbage.
The accident.
Or, you know… attempted murder, depending on how charitable we’re feeling.
Alex keeps saying he’s fine. That it’s “handled.” That it doesn’t bother him, and “baby, don’t stress.” But I know better. I know what his voice sounds like when he’s lying to protect someone. (Hint: it’s the same tone he uses when he claims he’s “not hungry” and then eats all my fries.)
And honestly? It’s not exactly easy to sleep soundly when you’re still investigating whether your father had you yeeted into traffic like yesterday’s stock portfolio.
Even if said father has always been a cold, manipulative, emotionally unavailable prick who probably thinks love is something invented by poor people.
We don’t talk about it a lot, not directly. Because once we do? It’ll be real. Tangible. And maybe more than either of us wants to confront right now. Like—do you know what it’s like to share breakfast with the man you love while wondering if someone tried to murder him over boardroom drama?
I do.
Pass the eggs.
So yeah, everything looks golden and glossy on the outside. Power couple. Wedding pending. Future of the Vanderbilt dynasty tied up in perfectly-tailored ribbon.
But beneath all that?
There’s rot. There’s betrayal. And a question that keeps Alex up at night, even if he pretends otherwise:
What if the man who gave you life also wanted to end it?
And that’s the kind of shit a diamond ring can’t fix.