Chapter Fifteen Jenn
Chapter Fifteen
Jenn
Ten years ago
I believed Julian when he told me everything that happened in the ER with David Kellogg that night was going to be okay.
There had always been a special bond between us, from the first time I heard him speak on a panel at the University of Miami.
He became my mentor, eventually helping me to secure a psychiatric residency under him at Miami Killian.
There was no one I respected or trusted more than Dr. Julian Braithwaite. So when he stopped returning my calls, I drove to his Coconut Grove villa in person.
The front door swung open before I could even get out of my car, as if he’d been waiting for me.
“Why aren’t you taking my calls?” I asked, more alarmed than angry.
I’d assumed something must have been wrong—maybe something with his wife, who I knew was battling cancer. “Is Rose . . . Is Rose okay?”
“What?” Confusion clouded his face, then vanished. “No, no, she’s fine. Well, not fine, but she’s as well as can be expected. No, I’m sorry, I haven’t gotten back to you because I can’t. I can’t have any contact with you.”
I stood at the bottom of his front steps and looked up at him, incredulous. When I spoke again, my voice was hoarse, its volume barely above a whisper. “You know what’s going on? What Kellogg is saying I did?”
“I do, yes,” he said, the words tight with regret.
“But . . . you know it’s a lie, right? I came to you. I told you what he did. You said it would be okay, that you’d help me!”
“Jenn, listen to me,” he began slowly. “You must understand I’m in a delicate position here . . . Until the administration has completed a review of the events, I’m not permitted to have any contact with you. But trust me, this will all blow over.”
“Really? Because I’m not so sure about that.” I pulled a folded envelope from my back pocket and waved it at him. “He’s filed an official complaint with the state medical board.”
Julian winced, closing his eyes for the briefest of moments. When he opened them again, I saw the answer there. The fury that rose in me was nothing compared to the betrayal. He couldn’t have hurt me more if he’d slapped me.
I turned toward my car, but not before he could see the tears spilling down my cheeks.
“Jenn, I’m so sorry,” he called after me.
I kept my head held high. And I kept walking.
Friday morning
The echo of his voice follows me now—ten years later—as we walk side by side down the hospital corridor.
Same careful gait, same calm tone, same man who once stood on his porch telling me he couldn’t help.
Only this time, he’s the one leading me somewhere I don’t fully trust.
We walk for several long strides in silence before I finally say, “You could have told me.”
He glances over, brow furrowed. “Told you what?”
“That you handled the Langstons’ adoption.”
His expression doesn’t change. His voice is as smooth and steady as ever. “It didn’t seem relevant.”
“Relevant?” I stop walking, forcing him to turn. “You’re the reason they’re here, Julian. The reason I’m here.”
He exhales through his nose. “My only concern is Mary’s well-being.”
A short, humorless laugh escapes me. “The same way my well-being was your concern?”
That lands. For the first time, his composure wavers—just a flicker, but I catch it. Then he looks at me, really looks, and says quietly, “You’re right. I should have told you.”
It’s not an apology, not really. But it’s the closest he’s capable of.
I nod once and start walking again. By the time we reach the security desk, the tension has cooled into an uneasy truce.
A guard sits at a small desk flanked by two monitors—one with a spreadsheet of scheduled visitors, the other showing a grid of camera feeds. His name tag reads Jerry. When Julian pulls out his badge, I do the same.
He swipes both our IDs through a card reader and returns them with a polite smile. “Thank you, Dr. B. And welcome, Dr. Flores. I’ve got you cleared for access through Tuesday, correct?”
“Yes, perfect,” I say, matching his professional tone.
He presses the elevator call button for us, and moments later, the doors glide open.
Inside, the lighting is low and cool, the air faintly antiseptic. Neither of us speaks. I watch our reflections in the brushed steel—his posture loose and confident, mine stiff with restraint.
When the doors open again, a wave of soft light and filtered air hits me like I’ve stepped through a portal.
The fifth floor—Executive Care Unit, better known among staff as the VIP ward.
While 99 percent of us endure the fluorescent indignities of a regular hospital floor, the remaining 1 percent live in another world entirely: private multiroom suites, one-to-one care, and security that rivals a head of state.
This is my first time stepping foot on one of these floors, and my jaw goes slack.
“My God,” I murmur, taking in the reception area—more boutique hotel than hospital.
He gestures for me to exit first into a bright, polished space where every surface gleams. The marble floor reflects the light from soft-amber sconces.
A second security officer gives us a courteous nod as we approach the reception counter, where a woman in a plum suit sits behind a sleek computer terminal.
“Good morning, Margaret,” Julian greets her. “This is Dr. Flores. She’ll have full access to the floor.”
Margaret, fiftysomething, with flawless makeup and honey-brown hair twisted neatly at the back of her head, flashes a professional smile. “Nice to meet you, Dr. Flores. Welcome. I’m one of the concierges.”
“Concierge?” I echo, unable to hide my surprise.
“Yes,” she says, clearly used to the reaction. “Just like at a hotel. Someone’s always here—if you need anything at all, from takeout or flowers to pharmacy deliveries or dinner reservations, just come out here or dial zero.”
“Right . . . okay,” I say, still trying to reconcile these luxuries with the overworked nurses and worn linoleum four floors below.
I must look like a tourist, gawking at the framed art and window views of downtown.
Somewhere beneath us, patients are waiting eight hours for a bed.
But up here? You probably need only sigh before an organic smoothie appears.
Margaret buzzes us through a glass door into a hushed corridor carpeted in muted Persian rugs. Soft sconces throw amber pools of light against taupe walls, and the faint scent of lavender hangs in the air.
“It’s quite something, isn’t it?” Julian asks, with a grin, clearly enjoying my reaction.
“It really is,” I admit, hurrying to keep up. “I knew these units existed; I just never thought I’d set foot in one.”
“Ah, well. You’re in for a treat. Jonathan Adler consulted on the redesign.”
“Seriously?” I laugh. “What, are the menus by Jamie Oliver?”
“Wolfgang Puck Catering,” he corrects.
I stare at him. “You’re kidding.”
He grins. “Would I joke about cuisine?”
“Apparently not,” I mutter.
He continues, almost boastful now. “There’s a private bistro with cooked-to-order meals, a spa, library, outdoor terrace, even a small business center for family members. Patients never have to leave the floor—there’s dedicated imaging and a secure corridor to the OR wing.”
I shake my head. “And here I thought hospitals were supposed to smell like antiseptic.”
Julian chuckles. “Not this one. Not when there’s a full-time homeopath on staff to see to the aromatherapy.”
Unbelievable.
He stops at a door marked Hibiscus Suite and knocks softly before opening it.
Inside stands a nurse in a crisp white tunic edged with navy piping.
Her badge reads Shannon. Her muted red hair is twisted up neatly, and her curvy frame gives her an easy, approachable presence.
For half a second I think she looks familiar, but the feeling slips away before I can place it.
Hundreds of people work in this hospital; plenty of them could still be here after all these years.
“Good morning, Dr. Braithwaite,” she says.
The words are pleasant enough, but her tone—and her face—are all ice.
Huh. Someone’s definitely not a fan of my old mentor.
The room looks nothing like a hospital suite.
It’s a hotel penthouse that just happens to contain medical equipment.
Damask bedding, gauzy drapes filtering soft sunlight, a wall-mounted flatscreen looping Impressionist art.
A small reading nook is tucked into one corner, the bookshelf stocked with hardcovers.
Seated there, her legs curled under a fuzzy blanket, is a girl—pale, bandaged, her eyes wide and wary. The few unmarked patches of skin are chalk white.
Julian’s tone shifts as he approaches, the softness in his voice almost rehearsed. “Good morning, Mary. I’ve brought someone to meet you.”
Her gaze flickers between him and me. She knows him—of course she does. The family friend, the longtime confidant, the man who helped orchestrate her adoption and probably their donation to this hospital.
“Remember I told you about Dr. Flores? She’s come down from New York. She’ll be helping us for a little while.”
Helping us. Not helping you.
“Hi, Mary,” I say gently, keeping my voice even. I want her to hear the difference. “It’s nice to meet you. I’m looking forward to spending some time together—if that’s okay with you.”
She doesn’t respond. Just pulls the blanket closer, turning toward the window.
I can almost feel the weight of her silence. She’s been through something terrible—something words can’t reach. And even if they could, she probably assumes there isn’t anyone who could possibly understand.
But then, I’m not just anyone, am I?
Julian clears his throat beside me. “It’s all right, Mary. Just rest. We’ll come back a little later.”
There’s something in his tone—calm, commanding, proprietary—that rubs me the wrong way.
It’s hard to tell if it’s my instincts flagging me or if it’s just my irritation with him.
Either way, I choose to ignore his cue to leave the same way we came in.
I didn’t come all this distance to not even try.
Moving closer to her chair, I crouch slightly, bringing myself level with her.
“You don’t have to talk. Not to me, not to anyone.
But it might help. And I promise you, Mary, whatever you say is in strictest of confidence.
I can’t—and I won’t—discuss anything you tell me with anyone.
Not the police, not your parents.” I glance back over my shoulder and up at Julian.
“No one you don’t give me permission to speak with.
” My eyes swivel back to meet and hold hers.
“I’m going to leave a card with my cell number.
I’ll be here till Monday—you can call or text me anytime, day or night.
But only if you want to. No one is going to be angry with you if you don’t. I won’t be offended. You can trust me.”
When I utter those last four words, I know I’m not just speaking to Mary Langston. I’m also sending a message to the man standing behind me.
They’re the same words he once said to me.
Only when I say them, I mean them.