Chapter 4

BIANCA

The morning shift at the hospital was a blessing—twelve hours where I could lose myself in other people’s problems, where my hands could heal bodies even if my own heart was breaking. I’d left before Matthew woke, left a note for Theo with his breakfast, and escaped into the only place I still felt competent.

Mrs. Michaelson needed her bandages changed. Little Marcus had finally kept down solid food after three days of stomach flu. Old Mr. Kapoor’s blood pressure was stabilizing. These were problems I could solve, wounds I could actually mend.

“Dr. Morrison?” Nurse Sarah approached my station, a file in her hands. “We have a home visit request. New patient, immunocompromised, can’t come to the hospital. The address is—”

I took the file without looking, already mentally preparing for the visit. Home calls were rare but not unusual, especially for patients who couldn’t risk exposure to hospital germs. I gathered my supplies, checked my bag twice out of habit, and headed for my car.

It wasn’t until I pulled up to the building that my stomach dropped.

The Meridian Apartments. Fifteen stories of modern luxury overlooking the park. I knew this building. I’d driven past it exactly forty-three times in the last thirteen months—yes, I’d counted—because this was where Mia lived.

My hands tightened on the steering wheel. The patient was on the ninth floor. Mia was on the same floor with this patient but they were two different people. Different worlds, really. I could do this. I was a professional. I couldn’t abandon a patient just because my husband’s first love happened to live in the same building.

Besides, what were the odds I’d even see her?

I forced myself out of the car, medical bag heavy in my hand, and walked through the pristine lobby. The doorman nodded at me professionally, clearly used to medical personnel coming and going. The elevator ride was smooth, silent, and I focused on my breathing, on the patient I was about to see, on anything except the fact that somewhere else, Mia was probably planning the next activity on her bucket list with my husband.

The ninth floor hallway was quiet, carpeted in that expensive way that absorbed all sound. Apartment 9C. I knocked, heard a weak “come in,” and entered to find an elderly woman propped up in bed, her color poor, her breathing labored.

Mrs. Adelaide Finch. Seventy-eight years old. Stage four lymphoma. Actually dying, unlike certain other people I could name.

“Mrs. Finch,” I said gently, moving to her bedside, already assessing her condition with practiced eyes. “I’m Dr. Morrison. I’m here to check on you and adjust your pain management if needed.”

“Bless you for coming, dear.” Her voice was thin, reedy. “The hospital’s too far, and I get so tired…”

I spent the next forty minutes examining her, adjusting her medications, checking her vitals, and listening—really listening—as she talked about her late husband, her estranged daughter, the grandson she hoped would visit before… well. Before.

This was what dying looked like. This exhaustion, this fragility, this gradual dimming of light.

I was updating Mrs. Finch’s chart, my hand steady and professional, when I heard voices in the hallway outside. Male voices. One of them was familiar in a way that made my entire body go rigid.

Matthew.

No. No, it couldn’t be. What were the odds—

But I knew that voice. I heard it said “I do” four years ago. I’d heard it say “it’s a boy” when Theo was born. I’d heard it say “Bianca’s just tired” last night while I cried behind a locked door.

“Mrs. Finch,” I said quietly, proud of how calm I sounded, “I need to step outside for just a moment to update your chart in private. Medical confidentiality. I’ll be right back.”

She nodded, already drifting off, the pain medication making her drowsy.

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