Page 46 of Filthy Rich Brother’s Best Friends (Filthy Rich Harems #5)

The waiting room is a cacophony of barks, meows, and anxious pet owners. It’s like a little concert of fur friends.

I weave through the crowd, my arms full of charts and a stethoscope dangling around my neck. The phone at the front desk rings incessantly, and I catch Sabrina's harried glance as she juggles multiple lines.

"Tessa, can you handle intake?" she calls out, her voice strained. "We're swamped up here."

I nod, already heading toward the scale in the corner. "On it. Send 'em back."

A golden retriever bounds up to me, nearly knocking me over in its excitement. I can't help but grin as I scratch behind its ears.

"Hey there, big guy. Let's see how much you weigh, huh?"

As I coax the dog onto the scale, I notice the owner tapping her foot impatiently. I try to push down my annoyance. Why are some people such assholes?

"Sixty-nine pounds," I announce, jotting it down on the chart. "Right this way, please."

I lead them to an exam room, my mind already on the next patient. It's days like these that make me question why I didn't just open a shelter instead of working in a clinic. At least then I'd only have to deal with the animals. Unfortunately, running an animal shelter doesn't pay the bills.

As I catch sight of a trembling chihuahua in the arms of an elderly woman, I remember why I'm here. These pets need me, even if their owners sometimes drive me up the wall.

I call out the next name on my list—Morgan Blaise—plastering on my best professional smile. It's going to be a long day, but for the animals, it's worth it.

Morgan snatches up her dog’s leash and storms over, her heels clicking aggressively against the linoleum floor. A small, fluffy dog trots at her side, its leash pulled taut.

"It's about time," she snaps, her voice sharp enough to cut glass. "I've been waiting for ages."

I bite my tongue, reminding myself that it's not the dog's fault its owner is a piece of shit. "I apologize for the wait. If you could please place your dog on the scale?"

She rolls her eyes but complies, practically dropping the poor thing onto the metal surface. I wince internally, my heart aching for the little white fluffball.

As I record the weight, something catches my eye. Despite the abundant fur, there's a noticeable dip in the dog's sides. I frown, double-checking the numbers.

"Hmm," I mutter, more to myself than to the impatient woman tapping her foot beside me.

"What?" she demands, her tone dripping with irritation.

I choose my words carefully, knowing how some owners can react. "Your dog seems to be a bit underweight for its size and breed. Have there been any changes in his appetite recently?"

The woman's ice-blue eyes narrow dangerously. I can practically see the storm brewing behind them, and I brace myself for the inevitable outburst. But I won't back down—not when an animal's health is at stake.

“Are you accusing me of starving my dog? Really? Do I look like someone who would do that?”

I make a note that the dog is underweight and bite my tongue. It’s not my place. It’s not my place. It’s not your freaking place, Tessa.

I take a deep breath as I lead the woman into the exam room.

I’m ready to move on to the standard pre-appointment questions, when the woman suddenly grabs her dog.

In one swift, rough motion, she hoists the poor creature onto the examination table.

A terrified yelp escapes the poor thing, but it quickly flinches and cowers when mommy dearest shoots him a look that could curdle milk.

"There. Can we get on with this?" she snaps, her manicured nails tapping impatiently on the metal surface.

My heart races, adrenaline spiking through my system. The way she manhandled that sweet pup...it's all I can do not to physically put myself between them.

The dog moves toward the edge of the exam table and the woman snatches it by the collar and drags it back, pushing it down onto the metal surface roughly.

"Hey!" I bark, my voice sharper than I intended. "Please be careful with your dog. There's no need to be so rough."

The woman's eyes flash with obvious anger, and I know I've crossed a line. But I can't bring myself to care. All I can think about is protecting the innocent animal.

"Excuse me?" she hisses, leaning in close. Her perfume is cloying, almost suffocating. "Who do you think you are to tell me how to handle my own dog?"

I stand my ground, meeting her gaze. "I'm the vet technician responsible for your pet's wellbeing in this clinic. And right now, I'm concerned about the way you're treating him."

She laughs, a harsh, bitter sound that makes my skin crawl. "Oh, honey. You have no idea who you're dealing with. I could have your job for this."

I swallow hard, knowing she might be right. But the trembling pup on the table steels my resolve. Some things are worth fighting for.

The woman's eyes narrow to slits as she takes a menacing step toward me. My heart pounds, but I refuse to back down. Suddenly, the leash pulls taut as she steps toward me, and time seems to stand still as her dog loses his balance.

"No!" I gasp, lunging forward.

My hands reach out, barely managing to catch the dog before he tumbles to the hard floor. Relief floods through me as I cradle him against my chest, feeling his rapid heartbeat.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" I snap at the woman, anger and fear making my voice tremble. "You could have seriously hurt him!"

Her face contorts with rage. "How dare you! This is your fault. If you hadn't distracted me?—"

" My fault?" I interrupt, incredulous. I gently set the dog back on the table, keeping a protective hand on his back. "You're the one who?—"

"Listen here, you little—" she snarls, advancing on me with clenched fists.

The exam room door swings open, and Dr. Hartley walks in, his eyes widening as he takes in the scene.

"What's going on here?" he asks, looking between us.

I open my mouth to explain, but the woman beats me to it.

"Finally, someone with actual authority," she sneers. "Your employee here has been completely unprofessional..."

As she launches into her tirade, I can only stand there, my hand still resting on her dog's trembling form, wondering how this situation spiraled so far out of control.

I watch in disbelief as Dr. Hartley's expression morphs from concern to disapproval, his gaze shifting between the irate woman and me. My heart races, and I struggle to find my voice.

"Dr. Hartley, I—" I start, but he cuts me off with a raised hand.

"Tessa, I think it's best if you step out for a moment," he says, his tone clipped.

Reluctantly, I leave the exam room, my legs feeling like lead. The hallway seems to close in around me as I lean against the wall, trying to process what just happened. Minutes tick by, each one feeling like an eternity.

Finally, Dr. Hartley emerges, his face grim. "Tessa, we need to talk."

I follow him to his office, my stomach in knots. As soon as the door closes, he turns to me with a heavy sigh.

"I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to let you go," he says.

The words hit me like a punch to the gut. "What? But Dr. Hartley, that woman was?—"

"I understand there are two sides to every story," he interrupts, "but we can't afford to lose clients over altercations like this. I'm truly sorry, Tessa."

I leave the clinic in a daze, barely registering the sympathetic glances from my now-former coworkers. The drive home is a blur, and before I know it, I'm unlocking my front door.

Lulu greets me with her usual enthusiasm, her tail wagging furiously. I drop to my knees, burying my face in her soft fur.

"At least I've still got you, girl," I murmur, fighting back tears.

After a few moments, I stand up, grabbing Lulu's leash. "Come on, let's go to the park. I need to clear my head."

The familiar path to the dog park helps calm my racing thoughts. As Lulu bounds ahead, I try to focus on the warm sun on my face and the gentle breeze rustling the leaves.

"What am I going to do now?" I wonder aloud, watching Lulu chase a butterfly.

"Talking to yourself?" a deep voice asks, sending a jolt of surprise through me.

I turn quickly, startled, and find myself facing a man sitting on the bench just behind me.

He’s striking—extremely handsome, in a way that catches me off guard.

His chiseled features seem like they belong in a magazine ad: strong jawline, high cheekbones, and a straight nose that gives him a rugged yet refined look.

His dark hair is neatly styled, just the slightest hint of gray at his temples adding a touch of maturity to his otherwise youthful face.

He’s dressed impeccably in a perfectly tailored suit, sharp and professional, though something about the way he holds himself makes it clear that he’s used to making an impression.

He’s the kind of man who stands out without even trying—tall, with a presence that seems to fill the space around him, though he sits relaxed, his posture effortlessly confident.

His blue eyes catch mine—piercing, almost unnerving, but there’s something warm in them, a mix of amusement and something else, something that feels like concern.

His eyes flicker to the dogs running around, then back to me, studying my face. There’s a calmness to him. I feel like he’s the type of man who sees right through you, who can read your intentions before you even know what you want. It’s unsettling and strangely comforting at the same time.

The way he’s looking at me, the way his features remain unreadable despite the warmth in his gaze, makes me wonder if he’s been through something similar. But I don’t ask. It’s easier to keep my thoughts to myself, to keep my walls up.

"Rough day?" he asks, his voice low and gentle, like he’s trying to make sure I’m all right without prying too much.

I blink, momentarily lost in the intensity of his gaze.

I can’t seem to look away, even though part of me wants to.

There's something about him—something commanding that makes me feel small, vulnerable, but not in a threatening way. It’s more like he’s someone who’s seen a lot, someone who understands.

I let out a bitter laugh. "You could say that."

He watches me for a moment longer, and I wonder if he’s trying to figure out what my deal is, or if he can sense the weight of my frustration just beneath the surface.

Then, as if deciding that’s enough, he shifts his gaze to Lulu, still chasing the butterfly.

His expression softens, just a little, as though the dog’s antics are enough to distract him from whatever’s going on with me.

The silence between us is comfortable but heavy, like we’re both lost in our own thoughts.

I know I can’t linger in this moment for long. I’ve got things to do, and the last thing I need is to be sidetracked by some stranger with blue eyes that are too knowing for comfort.

I look back to Lulu, focusing on her as she darts around the enclosure. Stepping away from the man, I put my focus back on what matters: Lulu.

“Come, Lulu,” I say, infusing authority in my voice. Lulu immediately obeys as she always does. The sound of her paws pattering against the ground is soothing, grounding me back to reality.

I give her a treat from my pocket and start working through the commands we’ve been practicing. All the while, I can feel the man’s eyes on me.