09. Paris Young

✺✺✺

TASHA WAS COVERED IN BLOOD. NONE OF IT WAS HERS.

"What's going on?" Paris breathed, clutching the doorframe to Room 316. "Dr. Meyer?"

"Nobody touch me!" Tasha screamed.

She stood, her entire body shaking, with her hands bawled into fists. There was an IV cord laced between her fingers, the sharp edge jutting like a makeshift knife.

Paris's mouth opened. Horror—sheer horror.

"You stabbed Dr. Meyer?" she gasped.

"He was trying to touch me," Tasha snarled, and the blood dripped down her knuckles. Splattering onto the white tiled floor.

A nurse knelt on the other side of the bed. Helping Dr. Meyer.

To Paris, she said, "He was taking her vitals. I was here the whole time."

"Nothing inappropriate?" Paris said under her breath.

Nurse Connie nodded. "You know I'd never let something like that happen under my watch."

"Get him out of here," Paris ordered. "I'll handle her."

"Are you sure?" said Nurse Connie, lifting Dr. Meyer to his feet.

The old German man was muttering in his native tongue. "Dummes verdammtes Mädchen."

As soon as they were gone, Paris let herself scan Tasha.

No, I'm not sure, she had wanted to say.

Had taking Tasha under her wing been a mistake?

But all she could think of was Evelyn Tribeca, and the words she had whispered in Tasha's ear. Repulsive homosexual.

A little girl didn't grow up with a mother like that and come out unscathed.

But this . . . stabbing a doctor.

The hospital board would use this against Paris.

"Tasha?" she tried softly.

The little girl was still shaking uncontrollably, eyes closed, knuckles white. The knitted pink beanie was low over her eyes, and the glossy cocoa hair was uneven on her head.

"Tasha, listen to my voice," Paris said.

She had been a pediatrician for a long time—dealing with her children was her specialty.

But dealing with violent, abused kids wasn't something Paris was familiar with.

And at any moment, she was sure she would screw this up. Make this worse. Infuriate Tasha. Lose her job.

She wasn't okay. None of this was okay.

This isn't time for a breakdown, Paris told herself. She was a doctor—she worked best under pressure. She could handle this.

"Tasha," Paris said softly. "Why did you stab Dr. Meyer?"

"I told him not to touch me," she spat out. "Nobody is allowed to touch me."

"Did your mother tell you that?"

When Tasha looked up, the light in her eyes was raw and devastated. "I'm dirty," she whispered. The IV cord laced around her knuckles slipped to the floor. "Nobody can touch me. I had to protect him."

"But why did you stab him, Tasha?"

Her voice cracked. "It was only the way he would listen."

✺✺✺

ON THE PHONE, EVELYN TRIBECA'S VOICE was flat. Peaceful.

"You think you can just call Social Services on me and my family?" she said. "I am a good mother. I teach my daughter the lessons nobody else will."

Paris could barely restrain herself. "As a direct quote, Mrs. Tribeca, is calling your daughter a 'dirty fucking whore' one of these lessons?"

"Who else will tell her that?" whispered Evelyn Tribeca, so softly and calmly Paris's knuckles turned white.

The snow outside swirled in a flurry. There would be big a storm soon.

Paris tried to focus on that. Don't lose your temper.

But if there was one thing that could set her on fire, it was a homophobic parent.

Because when Paris had been fourteen, living in Chicago, her parents had discovered her relationship with Josie Kensington. And she still remembered the words they had thrown at her.

Her father had asked, How can you be a lesbian? You're too pretty for that.

Her mother saying, You're too young to know what your sexuality is.

To that, Paris had shot back, Then how do I know I'm straight?

After that, they had sent her to Vega's Boarding Academy in Switzerland. Where she had met Rory. Where she had learned exactly how to be a prim, proper lady—and what to do when she wanted to fool people into thinking she was.

Paris had been good at that. Maybe a little too good.

It was what had first drawn Rory to her.

She remembered their first conversation. Their English class had been doing a rendition of Romeo and Juliet. The teacher asked for volunteers to read the script. As always, Paris's hand had shot up first. She would read Juliet.

From the back of the classroom, Rory Preston's chair had scraped back.

It drew the attention of the class. The teacher snapped, "Do you have something to say, Miss Preston?"

"I volunteer to be Romeo."

They had read the script that class, with Paris as Juliet and Rory as Romeo. And never, in her whole life, had Paris ever felt simmering heat in that class. Pure, unfettered tension. Coiling between them like lightning.

And when the class was over, when their parts were done, the teacher had said, "That was the best imitation of Shakespeare I have ever witnessed."

Rory had only smirked.

Later that day, Paris skipped fourth period and made out with her in the back of the library.

It was the first encounter of what would be a very long, tangled history.

Now, Paris listened to Evelyn Tribeca's voice over the phone. Don't think of the princess. She had avoided any mention of Rory for years.

"You know what?" Paris said. "This isn't my job. I had a duty to report you to Social Services. My first obligation is to Tasha, not you."

She hung up the phone.

Matt Donovan, a member of the hospital board, had already threatened Paris. Don't go against the King of Valeria. This donation is too important to risk for just one child.

The children are why we do this, Paris had said.

She had gotten heated—too heated. She would pay for that disrespect later, and probably with a visit from the president of the hospital.

But for now, she could look at the snow and pretend.

Pretend that Rory had never come here. Pretend that she hadn't felt that attraction between them every day since.

Pretending that it didn't still hurt when Rory looked at her that way.

Like Paris was the only girl in the world. The only girl she had ever laid eyes on.

And even though it made Paris feel ridiculously beautiful, she knew it was a lie. The Rory she had once known, loved, hadn't really existed. And all it took was one reminder of their last argument.

Paris had said, I loved you, and you kissed her?

There was nothing for Rory to say. And she hadn't said anything—confirming it.

"Hey, Doc."

Through the reflection of the window, Paris could see that Rory had rolled into the room. The sleeves of her flannel shirt had rolled up, revealing her tan forearms.

"You're technically supposed to be wearing a hospital gown until we clear you for physical therapy only," Paris said.

"I think you like the view," said Rory.

Arrogant—as always.

But before Paris could turn around, Rory continued, "What happened in there? With Tasha, I mean?"

Paris hesitated. "She stabbed a doctor."

There was no judgement, no fear, in Rory's voice. "Why?"

And Paris had to admire that—Rory's refusal to judge anything before she knew all the details. She had always admired that, even if she would never tell the princess.

Maybe it came from being a doctor, from growing up in the top of her class, but Paris's ability to form immediate and confident decisions sometimes made her too critical of people. She needed that skill during surgery and as a pediatrician. But sometimes she wished she wasn't so quick to conclude things. To deliver a swift verdict.

"She didn't want anyone to touch her. She thinks she's . . . dirty."

Rory pushed her wheelchair towards Paris, until they were side by side, facing the window.

"This has been hard on you," she remarked.

Why was Paris surprised she had noticed?

Rory said, "Does this . . . does Tasha have anything to do with that argument you had earlier? With the businessman?"

"With Matt Donovan?" Paris let out a breath. "Yes. I wasn't supposed to take on another patient."

"Why not?"

Because of you.

Sometimes Paris forgot exactly how smart Rory was. With all the stupid things she did—and said—it was hard to remember her intelligence was sharp. Observant.

"A little girl in my care died the other day," Paris said before she could stop herself. "Izzy—Isabella. Which meant a spot opened up—I could take Tasha as a patient."

"But . . ." Rory said.

"But then you arrived, and even though there's enough space for Tasha, the board wants my full attention on you. They want your every need catered to, because of the—"

"The donation my father is giving?"

Paris smiled grimly. "Yes, because of that."

She probably should have regretted telling Rory the truth. But in this room, with no one to witness them, she felt safe here with her. She trusted that Rory wouldn't tell anyone. Even if she had broken Paris's heart, she always kept her secrets.

"You know, I . . ." Rory started. "About what happened between us, I want to tell you—"

"No," Paris said quickly. "No, it's fine. I don't need excuses."

It was hard to read Rory's face, but Paris could have sworn she saw . . . disappointment?

"And," Paris added lightly, "it's time for your physical therapy session."

What would Rory have said, if Paris had let her?

It doesn't matter.

There was nothing Rory could do to take back what she had done.

Kissing another girl the same day Paris had told her she loved her? There was no coming back from that. Paris deserved better.

Even if her heart skipped a beat every time she saw Rory.

Even if her skin burned with an unwanted blush every time Rory gave her that casual, careless grin.

All it is, she told herself, is leftover attraction.

Soon enough, it would go away.

✺✺✺

AFTER PARIS'S PHONE RANG FOR THE SEVENTH time, Evelyn Tribeca left a message that Paris deleted.

She should have listened before it was too late.

✺✺✺

How are y'all doing today?

It's snowing outside, winter break has officially started, and I am currently reading A Gentleman's Guide to Vice and Virtue.

I am so excited for PLAYBOY PRINCESS to be done in time for Christmas.

This chapter is dedicated to CateLiney and chicken_french_fry.

I'm concerned for both of your comments <3

EDIT: I'm really scared right now. Why are you having a foursome with a robot and Evelyn Tribeca?

From the moon and back,

Sarai