Chapter 2 - Waking Up Next to a Monster
When Bianca finally stirred, the heavy fog in her brain parted just enough for her to realize two things. First, the car was no longer moving; it was parked deep in the underground garage of an upscale high-rise. Second, she was not resting against the scratchy cushion of a Honda Civic.
Her cheek was pressed firmly against the solid, warm chest of a man who radiated quiet, terrifying authority.
Bianca’s eyes snapped open. She blinked rapidly, her gaze traveling up a crisp white dress shirt, a perfectly knotted silk tie, and a sharp, aristocratic jawline framed by midnight-black hair. A pair of deep, obsidian-dark eyes was staring straight down into hers, completely calm, profoundly intelligent, and entirely unreadable.
The man looked like a mob boss straight out of a cinematic thriller—unflinching, powerful, and utterly out of her league.
Panic hit Bianca like a bucket of ice water. Her exhausted mind scrambled to process the geometric impossibility of her location. She bolted upright, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.
"This isn't my car," she whispered, her voice cracking with mortification.
"No," the man answered softly, his voice a rich, baritone rumble that vibrated through the small cabin. "It isn't."
"Oh my God. I am so, so sorry," Bianca blurted out, her hands flying to her flushed cheeks as she scrambled awkwardly toward the door handle. "My app said black SUV, south entrance. I just finished a twenty-four-hour double shift at St. Catherine’s, and my brain is basically scrambled eggs. I wasn't paying attention at all!"
He watched her silently, his expression remaining entirely neutral. Most men of his stature, surrounded by underworld power and ruthless guards, would have had her dragged out or questioned on the spot. But Tristan Bellamy just sat there, observing her chaotic, sleep-deprived panic with a strange, lingering intensity.
"It’s fine," he finally said.
"It really isn't!" Bianca stammered, finally managing to pop the door open. She grabbed her canvas bag, practically tumbling out onto the cold concrete floor of the garage. "I am so sorry for trespassing in your personal vehicle! Have a nice life—bye!"
Before Tristan could utter another word, Bianca slammed the door shut and bolted toward the elevator lobby like a spooked deer, disappearing into the morning rush hour before the situation could become any more humiliating.
She had no idea who he was. She didn't know that the man whose expensive suit she had drooled on was Tristan Bellamy—the apex predator of the New York underworld, a man whose word law enforcement feared and whose enemies simply vanished into thin air. To Bianca, he was just a very rich, very intimidating stranger who had somehow tolerated her catastrophic stupidity.
Three days later, after sleeping for fourteen hours straight and consuming enough caffeine to fuel a small locomotive, Bianca returned to St. Catherine’s Medical Center, utterly determined to erase the memory of the black SUV from her mind forever.
Her assignment for the morning shift was room 412—a private VIP recovery suite. Her patient was Eleanor Bellamy, a delightful, sharp-witted older woman recovering from a successful hip replacement surgery.
"I already like you," Eleanor announced the very second Bianca walked through the door with her chart and stethoscope.
Bianca laughed, a genuine, warm sound that instantly brightened the sterile room. "That quickly? You don't even know if I’m good at drawing blood yet."
"I’m seventy-two years old, my dear. I’ve spent my entire life reading people," Eleanor smiled, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "And you have kind eyes. My son could use more people with kind eyes around him."
"Your son?" Bianca asked, gently fluffing the pillows behind Eleanor’s back.
"Tristan," Eleanor sighed fondly, though a shadow of maternal worry crossed her features. "He works far too hard. Never sleeps, always surrounded by suits and stress. I keep telling him he needs to find a nice girl who won't take his nonsense."
Before Bianca could formulate a polite response, the heavy oak door of the VIP suite clicked open.
"Good morning," Bianca said automatically, keeping her back to the entrance as she adjusted the IV drip line. "I’ll be right with—"
She stopped dead in her tracks.
The blood rushed out of her face, leaving her lightheaded. The clean, crisp scent of cedarwood and dark coffee filled her senses, cutting through the hospital disinfectant. Bianca slowly turned around, her breath catching in her throat.
May you like
Standing in the doorway, impeccably dressed in a charcoal-gray tailored suit with his hands casually tucked into his pockets, was the stranger from the SUV.
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