4. Kara
Kara
Tonight is the Metro General’s annual fundraising mixer, which means half the hospital board is here in the grand ballroom on the top floor of the Grand Regency Hotel trying to convince local real estate moguls to donate money for a new pediatric wing, while the senior attending staff pretend they enjoy wearing tuxedos.
I stand near the railing overlooking the ballroom, taking a slow sip of club soda with lime. I'm wearing a dark forest green silk dress and simple heels, nothing flashy, just professional enough to pass board inspection and comfortable enough if I need to leave.
My eyes drift over the room out of habit, the main double doors by coat check, the service corridor behind the bar, the emergency exit near the restrooms. Growing up around my father's business teaches you to spot the exits before you even order a drink.
Some habits don't vanish just because I'm wearing a hospital ID badge during the week.
"You look like you're planning an escape, Rossi." A dry voice announces beside me.
I turn my head. Marcus Henderson is standing there with a glass of scotch, looking remarkably relaxed.
"I'm giving it twenty more minutes," I reply, offering a small smile. "That way the board can't say I didn't show up."
"Make it thirty," Marcus advises, taking a slow sip. "Dr. Vance from Orthopedics is looking for someone to complain to about his parking space, and if he sees you standing alone, he'll corner you for half an hour."
"Noted. I'll move toward the bar."
"Good strategy," Marcus mutters, glancing across the crowded floor. "Although if you're looking for someone who hates these events more than you do, our chief trauma surgeon seems to be setting a new standard."
My gaze follows Marcus’s gesture toward the far corner of the room, past the live jazz quartet playing near the stage.
Dr. Leander Sartori stands against a pillar, completely separate from the crowd. He’s wearing a fitted black tuxedo, white shirt, black tie, his hands resting easily in his pockets. He looks like a dark, immovable monument carved into the corner of the room.
For the last three days of onboarding, we’ve existed in a state of tense, professional standoff. Every time his eyes land on me, there’s an edge of pure, cold friction, a silent reminder that he considers my presence in his department an unnecessary legal nuisance.
While I'm watching him, a tall guy with sandy hair and an unbuttoned bow tie strolls up to Leander, slapping him on the shoulder with a wide, easy grin.
He says something animated, gesturing with his champagne glass, Leander replies and gives him a cold look that could freeze boiling water.
The sandy-haired guy just laughs, completely unbothered, takes a sip of his drink, and turns away toward the main lounge area.
So the gargoyle actually has friends, I think, recognizing the second man's face from the ER staff board. Dr. Julian Mercer, senior ER attending.
"Charming man, Sartori," Marcus comments dryly beside me. "Remind me never to get on his bad side."
"He doesn't have a good side," I quip, taking another sip of my water. "Just varying degrees of intolerance."
"Well, he’s brilliant," Marcus answers, turning back toward the main lounge area. "And as long as he keeps saving lives in Trauma Bay 1, the board lets him be as grumpy as he wants. I'm going to find my wife before she buys another auction item. Good luck, Kara."
"Thanks, Marcus." I nod.
As Marcus disappears into the crowd, I see Dr. Julian Mercer pivot from the bar and head straight in my direction, a warm, amused smile spreading across his face.
I stay where I am, leaning casually against the railing as he stops two feet in front of me.
"Kara Rossi, right? The famous new legal liaison," Julian greets, extending a hand with easy charm. "I'm Julian. ER attending, certified survivor of the night shift"
I shake his hand, lightly amused by his energy. "Good evening, Dr. Mercer. I've read about twenty of your intake charts this week."
"And how many red flags did I earn us?" he asks, flashing a boyish grin.
"Only two," I reply smoothly. "Which makes you top tier for Metro General."
Julian lets out a bright laugh. "I'll take it. I saw you looking over at our resident brooding wall ornament in the corner." He tilts his head back toward Leander, who is still glued to his pillar. "Don't take it personally. He looks at everyone like they just insulted his ancestors."
"I don't take it personally," I reply, crossing my arms. "I'm just surprised anyone manages to stay in the same room with him for more than five minutes without catching hypothermia."
"It takes practice and a thick skin," Julian answers, grinning. "I've known him long enough to know his default setting is 'irritated by existence.' But beneath the six feet of ice and zero social skills, he's... well, no, he's actually just grumpy. But he's a great guy."
He’s sunshine personified, I observe, looking between Julian’s relaxed, open expression and Leander’s dark, brooding posture across the room. How those two operate in the same orbit is a mystery.
"Does he ever smile?" I ask, purely out of curiosity. "Or does his face crack if he tries?"
"I saw him smile once in 2019," Julian confides solemnly, leaning in half an inch. "I think it was a muscle spasm, but we celebrated anyway."
I laugh, a real, unprompted sound that catches me off guard. "Good to know."
"Anyway," Julian murmurs, tapping his empty glass against his hand. "I promised myself I’d only stay forty-five minutes before escaping. I just wanted to come over, introduce myself, and put a face to the name before I slipped out the side exit."
"Nice meeting you, Julian," I smile genuinely. "Thanks for the warning about your friend."
"Anytime, Kara. If he gives you too much trouble on the floor tomorrow, just throw a cup of coffee at him. I hear he loves that." He winks, turns on his heel, and casually weaves his way through the crowd toward the service corridor exits.
I turn back toward the floor, setting my empty glass on a passing waiter’s tray, and decide to make one last slow loop around the room before making my own departure.
I make it as far as the small lounge alcove near the floor when a man steps into my path, cutting off my route toward the corridor.
It’s Dr. Greg Callahan, one of the senior orthopedic surgeons Marcus warned me about. He’s in his late forties, smelling strongly of bourbon, his bow tie slightly crooked, a loose, red-faced grin stretched across his jaw.
"Kara, right?" Callahan drawls, stepping uncomfortably close into my personal space. "The new legal eagle."
I stop, dropping my hands to my sides, my posture straightening instantly. "Dr. Callahan. It's Ms Rossi. Good evening."
"Rossi, right, right," he waves a dismissive hand. He reaches out and catches my elbow, his fingers gripping through the silk of my dress. "I was just telling the chief of staff that we need more attractive attorneys in administration. Makes the risk assessments a lot easier to sit through."
I don't pull back aggressively, that creates a scene, and scenes give men like him an excuse to escalate. Instead, I shift my weight back half a step and look down at his hand on my arm.
"Let go of my elbow, Dr. Callahan," I warn, keeping my voice low and quiet.
He laughs, a loud, wet sound that draws a brief glance from a nearby couple. "Come on, live a little. It’s a party. Let's get a drink at the private bar upstairs."
"I'm leaving.” I mutter, stepping back again.
His grip tightens, his hand sliding up from my elbow to wrap firmly around my wrist, pulling me half an inch closer to him. "Don't be like that. I'm trying to be friendly."
Wrong move.
I prepare to plant the heel of my shoe straight into his instep, but before I can shift my weight, a tall shadow falls over both of us from behind Callahan.
The air around us drops five degrees in an instant.
"She said let go," a quiet, raspy voice says.
Callahan freezes, turning his head slightly over his shoulder.
Leander stands right behind him, his face is completely stripped of human warmth, his dark eyes fixed on Callahan’s hand around my wrist with a cold, terrifying focus.
"Sartori," Callahan mutters, trying to laugh it off, though his voice tightens slightly. "Mind your own business, man. We're just talking."
"You're touching her," Leander whispers. "And she told you to stop."
"We're just having a moment—"
Leander steps forward, his left hand coming down like an iron clamp over Callahan’s forearm, securing it in place. Before Callahan can even register the movement, Leander reaches out with his right hand, catches Callahan’s exposed wrist, and executes a swift, brutal downward leverage twist.
CRACK.
The sound of cartilage and small bones giving way is sharp and distinct, echoing right beneath the hum of the music.
Callahan doesn't even have time to scream before the sheer shock of the pain drops him instantly to his knees. A choked, wheezing gasp escapes his throat as he clutches his useless, grotesque-looking wrist against his chest, his face draining of all color in three seconds flat.
Wow, he broke his hand.
"Jesus!" Callahan whimpers, curling up on the carpet at our feet, tears springing to his eyes. "Jesus Christ, Sartori!"
Leander doesn't even look down at the man whimpering on the floor. He steps right over Callahan’s outstretched leg, putting himself directly between Callahan and me. His hand, warm and steady, lightly touches the small of my back, guiding me two steps away from the scene.
"You should go get it looked at," Leander tells Callahan coldly, his voice devoid of any emotion whatsoever. "That’ll teach you not to touch a woman without her explicit consent."
Callahan scrambles up using his good arm, cradling his broken wrist, and stumbles blindly toward the service exit, completely disappearing from the room.