05. Paris Young

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"MRS. CANTASIA," PARIS BEGAN, BUT THEY were both already crying.

There was no way to say it. No way to tell her so that somehow, her feelings would be spared. Paris worked side by side with death, and this . . . this was the aftermath.

"Isabella fought bravely," Paris said gently.

"And . . . how did she die?" Mrs. Cantasia said. "Tell me—tell me it wasn't painful."

Paris thought of the little girl, writhing on the bed, eyes wide with agony.

"No," Paris said softly. "It wasn't painful."

Then Mrs. Cantasia collapsed into her arms, weeping into her shoulder, and Paris couldn't hold back the tide anymore.

Today would have been Isabella's seventh birthday.

She . . . she would never turn seven.

Paris had cared for Izzy since she had been four, diagnosed with osteosarcoma. She had watched Isabella morph from the pale, unsmiling ghost of a girl to the bright, happy one who had said, "Pink! I want everything to be pink for my party!"

Pink balloons. Pink streamers. Pink candles.

She had loved Isabella in the same way she would have loved her own daughter.

And now . . . now, she was dead.

This was her job. This what it meant, working in the pediatrics ward.

Watching kids grow up. Watching them die.

And she loved her job, but today . . . she hated it.

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"MATTHEW, IF YOU EVER NEED ANYTHING, PLEASE don't hesitate to tell me."

Isabella's brother looked up at her. He looked so much like her it hurt.

Matthew was around seventeen, with hollowed cheekbones and bright eyes. "Thanks, Doc, but . . ."

"What's wrong, Matthew?"

Mrs. Cantasia was down the hall, sorting out the details to the funeral.

Matthew seemed almost haunted as he said, "I just don't think that anything would help."

"Oh, Matthew," Paris said, and she squeezed his shoulder. "I know it feels that way, but—"

"Matthew!" Mrs. Cantasia called from down the hall. Her face was red, streaked with red. She waved goodbye to Paris, motioning for her son to follow. And he left—one last glance at her, brimming with misery.

Fifteen minutes later, Paris still couldn't forget that look.

She flattened her hands against the counter. Looking into the bathroom mirror.

I just don't think anything would help, he had said.

What would she have said, if she had finished her reply?

Because she felt the same way right now—she felt like nothing would help.

Loving Isabella, loving all of these kids . . . it was a part of her.

And losing her, losing any of them, was breaking her.

This job, working in the pediatrics ward of Mount Sinai General, had been her dream ever since she had heard of it during boarding school.

And being a doctor had been her dream ever since she had first picked up a fork and knife, performing a surgery on Mr. Lemon the teddy bear.

Paris's eyes fell on her reflection.

Who am I? she thought.

Her pale brown skin, fine brown ringlets, and green-flecked eyes gave her the kind of face her mother said reminded her of Alicia Keys. And though mothers were biased, Paris knew she was beautiful. Knew that, if she had truly wanted, she could be married now. Maybe she could have her own kids with her own husband, and she could be a housewife.

A brittle laugh escaped her.

I know who I am, she thought.

Paris Young was someone dedicated to her job. To saving the lives of these kids here. She was fierce, and responsible, and independent.

She didn't want a man—had never wanted a man.

And she wouldn't back down now. Not from anyone.

Especially not Rory Preston.

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ANNA WAVED TO PARIS THE MOMENT SHE STEPPED out of the bathroom.

"Hey," Paris said, leaning against the reception counter. "What is it?"

"They've set up the princess's room," Anna said. "You just have to sign this form."

Paris glanced down at the paper Anna had slid over.

"A contract?" she asked in disbelief.

"Everyone in the hospital needs to sign it," Anna informed her. "Just a precaution—we're not allowed to contact the paparazzi or alert the media. You know, that kind of thing."

Paris narrowed her eyes, but she signed the paper anyway.

"Now that Princess Rory is fully checked in, you've been appointed her doctor. She's in the room next to—" Anna checked the computer screen. "—Dhonielle Mavis. Room 303."

"Great," Paris said, grounding her jaw.

"And . . . I have to say," Anna said. "There's a rumour circling about you and Rory. Apparently you got into a fight yesterday when she first—"

"No, I can't recall anything like that," Paris said. "No, doesn't ring a bell."

"Oh," Anna said. As though she was disappointed.

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"ALEC," PARIS SAID BREATHLESSLY. "I NEED A FAVOUR."

"Sure," Alec said easily, swinging around. "Where's the dead body?"

Paris rolled her eyes. "I don't need you to help me get away with murder. I'm a doctor—I could do that all on my own."

He raised an eyebrow, as though he was intrigued.

"I'm kidding," she said. "But I have to ask . . . if I wanted a new patient, could you contact them for me?"

Alec was a nurse, but Paris knew he had connections on the hospital board. If anyone could help her, it would be him.

"Don't you already have a new patient?"

"She's not a kid. It doesn't count. And besides, there's a lot of extra space. Please."

Alec's blue eyes twinkled. "Oh, please? Who is it?"

My name is Evelyn Tribeca, and my daughter is dying.

She knew going against the Chief of Medicine might end badly. She knew disobeying the King of Valeria might end worse. The hospital board would be furious, and the Mount Sinai director might even bring down his wrath on her.

But Paris's job wasn't about pleasing board executives and council trustees. It had never been about business and politics and bribery.

Paris was here to save lives, and this was a line she was willing to cross.

Even if it meant losing her job.

"Tasha," Paris said. "Her name is Tasha."

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This one is for you, chicken_french_fry,

Your comments scare me <3.

From the moon and back,

Sarai