Page 2

Chapter 1

Aria

T he elevators are broken.

As I stand here with a box already causing my knees to shake from its weight, I scowl at the not in service signs. The yellow and red-striped stickers are stuck to all the elevators. I need to take the stairs. God dammit.

I could cry.

Do you know how many floors I have to climb until I reach my temporary office here in the States?

Eight .

My poor legs.

I struggle to open the door to the stairway. Thankfully, my colleague and best friend, Gabriella, catches up to me. "I’ll get it," she offers, waving her hand out for me to go in first. "You could have waited for me." She flips her long, bouncy blonde hair over her shoulder.

"You were taking forever in the queue."

"I needed my morning coffee," she responds with a shrug, walking ahead while I still struggle with the box. "I go every morning, Aria."

"You have a coffee machine in your office."

She shrugs again. "The barista is hot."

I roll my eyes. She has given that excuse every morning since we arrived four days ago.

By the time we reach the eighth floor, I’m wheezing, in desperate need of an inhaler as my hands press the base of my spine to relieve some of the painful pressure. I don’t know how many times I stopped to drop the box and catch my breath, but Gabs seems like she could go another eight floors. I guess she does work out everyday, unlike me.

Despite being from Scotland, I grew up here in America, having moved away when I was a young teen and returned to study. Gabs has been my roommate since college, and we’ve never really been able to separate since. I’ve spent years putting up with her wild ways, and I’m still going.

I follow her into her office, practically gasping for breath as I settle the box on her desk and drop into her chair.

"How many are coming to the meeting?" Gabriella asks.

"Seven, maybe," I reply. "I managed to convince a specialist from London to come speak about the case. Oh, and two from Delaware showed interest and wanted to attend."

She whistles. "You did good. No one would take the case for over a year until you joined the team. It’s been a blessing to have you with us instead of down in the labs. You thrive more up here."

The transfer had been a big step for me, but I was honestly one genetic test away from blowing up the entire lab. Day after day, it was the same. I wanted more. I wanted to make a difference on the frontline. Gabriella told me there was a position opening up for a clinical scientist with experience in genetics, and I’d been in the labs for too long. I applied, and somehow, I managed to impress them enough to land the job.

It has been hard, don’t get me wrong–the change of scenery and the workload caught me off guard. But I’m here, and just like Gabriella said, I’m thriving.

When I took over the Ivy Dermot case, we had travelled across the world to discuss possible trials for her unknown illness, or to at least find a diagnosis, but after dozens of failures, a doctor here in the States invited us to see if Ivy would be a match for them.

"Okay, we have three minutes," she says, staring at her watch. She claps once. "You ready?"

I shake myself, taking a long, deep breath. No, I'm definitely not ready.

"I’m ready," I lie.

My best friend can see right through me.

She grasps my wrists, holding them up to her chest. "You’ve got this. You’re smart. You’re professional. You care. Don’t think about them all being older, or that they have more experience. You fight for what you believe in and don’t allow anyone to talk down to you because of your age. You understand? Your research is spot on, you’ve done everything properly, and I’ll be surprised if it gets refused."

I nod once.

But the lump in my throat is growing. I swallow it down, reminding myself of that beautiful smile from the most precious girl in the world.

I need to do this for her.

All the specialists are way older than me, and it can be daunting and nerve-wracking, especially when they try to dominate the room and talk down to me.

The conference room is blindingly bright, so much so, I struggle not to screw my eyes shut. Floor-to-ceiling windows span two walls of the corner room.

We sit at a large, dark, oval-shaped table, paperwork covering nearly every inch of the wood.

No one looks at us as we take our seats.

No one speaks, not even when the doctors and students walk in and greet those they already know. Across from us, two others drop down into their seats. Young men, maybe around their mid-twenties like me and Gabriella. They're well-dressed and look confident. One of them pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose while reading from a sheet of paper, and I have to look away before anyone thinks I’m staring.

I cross my legs at the knees, placing my folder in front of me and opening to the front page.

"Did you bring all of the—" Gabriella stops as soon as the door opens, silence filling the room.

The specialist doctor we were waiting for enters in powerful strides that make my spine tingle. To say I’m terrified is an understatement, but I can’t show it.

I clear my throat, grabbing everyone's attention. This is the third time I've stood in a meeting like this and fought for this child's life. Maybe this meeting will actually be positive and I won’t be shut down for not having their same level of experience.

"Thank you for coming today," I announce, painting a confident smile on my face.

I begin by discussing with a few of the staff about other patients here in the hospital, how their treatment has impacted their quality of life and my exact reason for reaching out.

I try to keep my chin up, my back straight the same as Gabs', as I address the doctor at the head of the table, Doctor Blythe. He wants to say a few words regarding my research, and my palms sweat as he stands from his seat.

He clears his throat to grab everyone's attention. "This is quite a peculiar case we've been looking into for some time. Remarkable work you've done here." I remain passive, waiting for the blow to land like I've been expecting. He tells the room of my work, my achievements in such a short time, and nods to me before taking his seat again. "I believe each of you have statements to make over the next few days before Miss Dermot’s arrival."

Wait, no.

"Oh, sorry," I say before he can continue. Everyone looks at me. "Aren't we looking into the information before instructing the patient to travel here? It would seem unnecessary if she were to come all the way from Scotland, only to be told the trials aren't compatible with what she needs? She's currently wheelchair-bound, and arrangements need to be made regarding her stay."

Dr. Blythe nods. "I know that. Please have the patient brought here by Friday. I've had a specialist look into her case, and he believes there is a strong match."

"They think she is compatible?"

"Yes," is all he says in reply, his eyes challenging me.

I sit back on my chair, crossing my legs under the table as Gabriella shifts beside me.

As usual, I’m the last to know. I'm relieved but pissed I've been here for four days and not once did he email me or come to my office to tell me specialists agree on a match.

Blythe continues, "I have asked two assistants to join the team." He points to the two young men across from us, both their heads buried in their notes. "Mr. Mitchell and Mr. Lapsley have been part of my team for three years, researching genetic mutations and pathogenic variations."

The one with pale eyes lifts his head, giving a nervous wave. The other keeps reading his paperwork as if there isn't a room full of professionals discussing a little girl's life. He licks the tip of his thumb to turn the page, dark brows furrowed deep behind the frames of his glasses.

"In front of you, if you haven't looked through them yet, are all the details needed. A copy of the enrollment, the specifics of the trial, the possible costs, side notes, and a section for your own, if needed. And Aria…" His eyes find mine over his glasses. "As you are the one who set this up and the listed primary worker on her case, I'd like to speak with you tomorrow at noon, just to go over some extra details."

To take control, you mean . Which is fine–he is more experienced, with a good twenty years on me. I’m just a girl in my early twenties, still breaking my way into the field, but my age shouldn’t make me feel useless the way it does when people talk down to me.

"Thank you," I reply with an enthusiastic smile, ensuring I make eye contact with each person in the room–except the guy in front, still fully focused on his paperwork.

"Everyone, if there are any concerns or any questions, you are welcome to direct them to Aria, as she likely knows more information on the patient than anyone."

The doctor from Great Ormond across from me clears his throat and stacks his pages. "How long have you been working on this case? From what I've heard, you’re very new to the department, a lab worker only two years ago. Am I correct? You’re certainly one of the youngest I've worked with."

Sigh.

Being in my twenties sucks sometimes.

Gabriella is the same age as me, and she never gets comments like that.

But I refuse to back down, especially with this case.

"My age is of no concern," I reply in the gentlest tone, trying not to piss anyone off. "I?—"

"Shouldn’t we have someone more qualified in charge?"

I smile at the doctor who just interrupted me. "Thank you for showing concern. I've been in this department for a little over two years, and yes, before that, I was a geneticist down in the labs. I take my role very seriously. I've done my own research for my patient, have spoken with her family numerous times about finding equipment at home, ease of travelling, anything to help her. There’s only so much available in our country, so we are limited unless we can organize a transfer. That's why I have reached out to others, why we were in Germany six months ago and then attended meetings at the Bambino Gesù in Rome. Ivy Dermot is a mystery, but I believe all mysteries can be solved."

I feel Gabriella smiling beside me.

When they all nod, I relax, resting both palms over Ivy's main file.

"I look forward to working with you all and hopefully finding a diagnosis and quality treatment plan for Ivy. As Dr. Blythe said, if you have questions, I will be happy to answer them."

I feel another lump building in my throat, this one threatening to suffocate me. As a professional, it is highly recommended not to form a bond with patients.

But I struggled to separate myself.

I overstepped two months ago and appeared at Ivy's family's door with flowers and a present for her eighth birthday. She'd smiled the whole time and cried when I left. She always gets excited when we have appointments, the beaming grin alone enough for me to continue fighting for her. Her seizures aren't as intense now that I've gotten her on different medication, and most days, she can stay awake for longer than a few hours. But her body–her muscles–are slowly deteriorating, her undiagnosed sickness whittling her away, and I want to stop it, or at least make life easier for her.

I glance up and see the hands of one of the assistants. He’s still flicking through Ivy’s file, deep in concentration, and as my heart starts to slow from the unwanted adrenaline, I stare at his fingers, the thickness of them, the blunt nails, the bands on his wrist.

When the meeting finishes, it's late, the sun vanishing, replaced by the moon shining through the floor-to-ceiling windows lining the wall. Most of the staff leave without looking at me; others give me a nod. Gabriella rests a hand on my shoulder and tells me I did well and that she'll see me at the hotel we’re staying at nearby.

It’s about ten minutes away, and as much as I hate walking around by myself, I have too much left to do before I call it a night. Now that I know Ivy will be transferred here, I need to ensure all the staff needed are on board and that her family is aware of what happens next.

I'm the last to exit the conference room by the time I check over all the documents again before I start sending emails. I throw my bag over my shoulder, tucking loose strands of hair behind my ear.

Lifting the dreaded heavy cardboard box full of paperwork, I make my way out of the room. I don't get far as my foot hits an outstretched leg–a man sitting with his back to the wall with papers in his hand.

Tumbling not so gracefully, I land face-first on the marble floor, paperwork and bag scattering everywhere.

"Oh, fuck! I'm so sorry," the man says in panic, quickly scrambling from the floor and holding his hand out for me to grab. In his panicked tone, he adds, "Here, let me help you."

Intense, unexplainable shocks run up my wrist as I take his hand, his palm soft and warm. Not looking up while I get to my knees, attempting to save myself from more embarrassment, I try to stack all the paperwork back into the box and nearly give myself a papercut.

I see him in my peripheral lowering to the floor, also gathering the papers. When I lift my bag, mortification lashes through me as my phone, lip balm, purse, and tampon topple out.

If one more embarrassing or bad thing happens today, I'll cry.

I let out an annoyed huff, wiping my forehead, still on my knees staring at everything for a minute in silence.

The mystery man sets a pile into the box, and I can tell all the documents are mixed up.

My eye twitches.

"Are you?—"

I cut him off. "You should really sit on the seats or in an office; I could have been a patient," I snap.

The air nearly leaves my lungs as I glare at him, his soft smile the first thing I notice. He's clean-shaven, with penetratingly vibrant blue eyes and long lashes to match his dark hair and brows. Now that I'm staring, his smile drops, and his perfect white teeth bite down on the plumper part of his bottom lip.

"Are you okay?" he asks with a hint of humor.

I drag my eyes away. "Sorry. I'm just tired, and today's been a bit much."

Squatting, he leans his elbows on his thighs, sleeves rolled up to reveal he's wearing a watch and charity bands, and he isn't heavily tattooed like my ex. "Sorry I tripped you," he apologizes, handing me my phone and lipstick, probably refusing to lift my tampon. "You're the Scottish doctor, aren't you? Why do you have an American accent?"

"I grew up here then moved."

"Ah," he replies. "A quick escape to the highlands."

I hum a response, rubbing my elbow that's aching from the fall.

He continues by asking with a tilted head, "Are you hurt, Doctor?"

"I'm fine. And no one calls me that. It’s just Aria."

"Aria," he repeats, like he's testing the way my name sounds on his tongue, tasting each syllable.

I don’t know why, but he sounds intrigued. I also don’t know why I like his voice, or that he’s not a stuck up asshole like most of the people I’ve had to work with.

Then, he smiles. "Doctor sounds better."

I scowl at him.

His shirt pulls taut along his chest as he straightens, offering me his hand once again. It’s then I realize I'm gawking at him with my lips parted, nerves prickling in me.

Why am I nervous? Worse, why am I nervous at work?

"You're one of the assistants," I state the obvious. "You're working on the Ivy Dermot case too."

His dimples dent in deep as he grins again, and I nearly buckle at the knees. As he steps back, grabbing his bag and throwing it over his shoulder, his parting words reach my ears.

"I am, but a pretty little thing like you can call me Tobias."