Chapter 3

By Saturday morning, the nausea had faded into a dull ache, though the tension at the Bennett dining table remained as stiff as the lace curtains in the window. Wearing a loose jumper after her long sleep, Rosie quietly spread butter over a slice of toast.

Margaret set a mug of strong builder's tea down in front of her.

"For tomorrow afternoon's meeting, wear that pale blue silk dress," her mother instructed. "Stop dressing like a nun on standby for resuscitation."

Rosie's hand paused on the butter knife.

"Mum, it's coffee in Soho, not a red carpet. Besides, Preston doesn't care what I wear. He only cares about when I'll hand in my notice."

Mr. Bennett peered over the top of his morning paper.

"Margaret, I think Rosie's usual clothes look very neat and practical."

"What do you know?" Margaret rounded on him. "Brenda said Preston values first impressions. Running out last time was rude enough—she has to make up for it tomorrow!"

Rosie set the knife down on the plate and took a slow breath.

"I agreed to meet him only to explain the emergency call-out," she said evenly. "It doesn't mean I'm going to keep seeing him."

Margaret's face darkened. She planted both hands on the table and leaned over her daughter.

"How much longer are you going to be this picky? Eighteen dates! Do you want to die alone in that A&E ward?"

Rosie shoved her chair back and stood up, her chest rising fast.

"My job saves lives, Mum! It's nothing to be ashamed of!"

Refusing to listen to another word, she grabbed her trench coat from the hallway peg.

"I'm going in to cover an extra shift at the hospital. I will show up tomorrow, but stay out of my career."

She pulled the front door shut behind her. The brisk wind outside cooled her hot cheeks as she walked toward the station, pulling out her phone to text Hattie that she was coming in early and needed coffee.

Forty minutes later, Rosie stood at the Royal Saint Anne's nurses' station. Hattie handed her a large black Americano, eyeing her pale face.

"Rowed with your mum again?"

Rosie took a long sip of the bitter coffee.

"She's forcing me to see that finance prick again tomorrow. I said yes just to buy myself a month of peace and quiet."

Hattie widened her eyes.

"The idiot who mocked our hourly wage and told you to quit? Rosie, have you lost the plot?"

"It's one hour tomorrow afternoon," Rosie said, rubbing her temples. "A fair trade to get her off my back."

Hattie patted her shoulder sympathetically, then leaned in with a grin.

"Forget that tosser. Guess who I just saw up on the VIP wing?"

"Who? Some film star?"

"That drop-dead gorgeous colonel from the other night!" Hattie whispered excitedly. "He came to check on the lieutenant who lost his spleen. Honestly, seeing him in dress uniform nearly made my knees give out."

The memory of Cameron's sharp dark eyes flashed through Rosie's head, making her heart skip an odd beat. She quickly reached for a stack of folders on the desk.

"I'm going to do the ICU rounds."

Rosie pushed a treatment trolley down the quiet ICU corridor, where the only sounds were the steady beeps of monitors and her own soft footsteps. Reaching Lieutenant Julian Whitaker's room, she raised a hand to push the door open, then froze as she glanced through the glass panel.

A man in a white lab coat stood with his back to the door, fiddling with the infusion pump beside Julian's bed.

Rosie's stomach tightened. It was handover hour, and the consultant, Dr. Simon Adler, had finished his rounds thirty minutes ago. No doctor should be in the room alone right now.

She eased the door open without a sound, her eyes narrowing on the man's back. The white coat hung too loose on his shoulders, and the ID badge on his pocket was flipped backward. Worse, his hands moved clumsily over the syringe—nothing like a trained medic.

Her gaze dropped to the clear vial in his hand. Instead of the blue label used for standard ICU antibiotics, the bottle bore a bright red warning band.

High-concentration potassium chloride. Rosie's breath caught in her throat. Injected straight into a central line undiluted, it would stop Julian's heart within seconds.

She shoved the door wide open and shouted.

"What are you doing?"

The man jolted, nearly dropping the syringe. He whipped his head around, revealing an unfamiliar face marked by a jagged scar across his left cheek.

Realizing his cover was blown, the man bared his teeth and lunged toward the bed, driving the needle straight toward the central venous catheter in Julian's neck.

Rosie threw herself forward and grabbed the man's wrists with both hands, shoving the syringe upward with all her strength.

"Security! Help!" she screamed at the top of her lungs, using her body weight to ram against his chest and keep the needle away from the line.

With a snarl, the man swung his arm violently and hurled Rosie backward into the metal equipment rack. Her spine slammed against the steel casing, sending a blinding bolt of pain through her back. As she fell to the floor, her fingers caught Julian's main IV tubing and yanked with everything she had, ripping the connector clean off the catheter hub.

Clear fluid sprayed harmlessly across the white bedsheets. Outside in the corridor, nurses cried out as heavy footsteps came running. Glaring down at Rosie on the floor, the scarred man turned and threw his shoulder through the interior glass window of the room, scrambling out into the passage.