Chapter 1

The overhead fluorescent lights of the ER hummed, a constant, buzzing sound I usually tuned out. Tonight, it felt like it was drilling into my skull. It was 2 a.m., the tail end of a brutal twelve-hour shift, and the air was thick with the smell of antiseptic and blood.

I was stitching up a biker' s scalp when my pager went off, a shrill, insistent beep. I glanced at the number. The ER front desk.

"Dr. Reed, you' re needed in cubicle three," my charge nurse, Maria, said as I walked past, her voice low. "It' s… personal."

I pulled off my bloody gloves, my stomach tightening. Personal was never good news in a hospital.

As I pushed through the swinging doors, I heard the nurses whispering by their station.

"That' s the one. The hot professor from U of C."

"And the girl? She' s his student. Looks barely legal."

My blood ran cold. I walked toward cubicle three, my steps feeling heavy, mechanical. The curtain was pulled halfway back.

Inside, my husband, Julian, was sitting on the edge of the bed. He was holding the hand of a young woman, stroking her hair as she sobbed.

It was Chloe.

The first recipient of my scholarship fund. The girl from my hometown I' d handpicked, the one I' d told Julian all about, so proud of her ambition. She was 21, pale and trembling, an IV line snaking into her arm.

Julian looked up and saw me. His face, usually so composed, flickered with something I' d never seen before, panic.

"Evie," he said, standing up quickly, blocking my view of Chloe.

I ignored him. I looked at the chart hanging from the foot of the bed. Alcohol poisoning. BAC was dangerously high.

"What is this, Julian?" My voice was quiet, dangerously quiet.

He ran a hand through his perfect hair. "Evie, calm down. Chloe was at a party, she got scared. She called me. She' s just a kid from home. You know that."

"She called you?" I asked. "Not 911? Not her friends? She called her professor?"

"I' m the only person she knows in Chicago," he said, his voice dropping into that familiar, condescending tone he used when he thought I was being unreasonable. "You, of all people, should have some compassion."

He then leaned in closer, his voice a whisper. "Listen, can you talk to the attending? Make sure this is handled quietly. We can' t have an official report. It would look bad for me at the university. Think of my reputation."

I stared at him. My husband. Standing in my emergency room, reeking of another woman' s perfume, asking me to compromise my professional ethics to protect his career from the consequences of his actions.

The world narrowed to his face, his handsome, lying face.