Elena adjusted the overhead light, her fingers brushing the edge of the medical chart with deliberate slowness.
Yvonne Kane sat on the exam table, legs crossed, a diamond-encrusted phone already in hand—no doubt prepped to document every second of her post-op checkup.
"Dr. Frost," Yvonne drawled, her tone syrupy with disdain, "I hope this won't take long. I have a brunch with Vogue in an hour."
Elena's smile was professional, her jawline tight beneath the expression.
"It'll be quick, Ms. Kane. Just need to assess the swelling." She leaned in, gloved fingers gentle as they traced the edges of Yvonne's newly sculpted cheekbones.
The skin felt warm, slightly tender—a normal reaction, but Yvonne flinched as if struck.
"Careful," she snapped, "this is art. Not a meat market."
Elena's breath hitched.
Before she could respond, the exam room door creaked open.
Lucas Hart stood in the doorway, tailored charcoal suit crisp against the clinical white walls.
His gaze locked onto hers first, a silent collision that knocked the air from her lungs.
Then, he inclined his head to Yvonne, as if she were a minor distraction.
"Dr. Frost. Ms. Kane. Apologies for interrupting—I'm here to review the center's Q1 metrics. Mr. Carter mentioned you'd be available, Elena."
Yvonne's lips pursed.
"Oh? And who might you be?"
"Lucas Hart," he said, stepping fully into the room.
The air seemed to thin around him—power, quiet and unyielding.
"Hart Group's director of strategic operations. We own this clinic, among others."
Yvonne's eyes lit up.
"Hart? As in the Harts? Oh! I've been meaning to discuss a… private consultation. Maybe over dinner? My treat." She batted her lashes, the movement sharp enough to cut.
Lucas didn't so much as glance at her.
His focus remained on Elena, whose pulse thudded in her ears.
"I'm here on business, Ms. Kane. Dr. Frost and I have matters to discuss."
Yvonne's cheeks flared.
"Well. Fine. But if my cheek puffs up like a balloon, someone will be hearing about it." She slid off the table, grabbing her coat with a huff, and stormed out.
The door slammed behind her, leaving the room unnervingly still.
Elena's throat felt dry.
"You didn't have to—"
"I did," Lucas said, closing the door.
His voice was low, a rumble that vibrated through her.
"She was wasting your time."
Their eyes met again.
For a heartbeat, the years fell away—Harvard's ivy-covered dorms, late-night study sessions in the library, the way he'd kissed her under the dormitory's oak tree, snowflakes melting on their skin.
But now, his gaze was sharper, edged with something she couldn't name.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket.
A text from the realtor: Original owner of 14 Birchwood Lane is back in the city.
Can you meet at 3 PM?
Elena's chest tightened.
That cottage—quaint, with a wraparound porch and a view of the Hudson—had been her escape plan.
A place to run, if the scandal ever forced her out of Manhattan.
Now, the owner's return meant hope… or another dead end.
Lucas's eyes narrowed, tracking the flicker of emotion on her face.
"Something wrong?"
"Just… a personal matter," she said, too quickly.
She stepped back, putting distance between them.
"I should finish Yvonne's notes. The nurse is waiting—"
"Elena." His hand shot out, catching her wrist.
His touch was warm, burning through the thin fabric of her scrubs.
"We need to talk. About us. About—"
"Dr. Frost!" Tara James's voice cut through the hall, shrill with faux urgency.
The other doctor appeared in the doorway, her red hair pulled into a too-tight bun, eyes gleaming.
"Dr. Carter wants the Yvonne Kane case file. Now."
Elena wrenched her wrist free, her skin tingling where Lucas had touched her.
"I'll bring it to his office in five minutes."
Tara's gaze darted between them, a shark scenting blood.
"Oh, don't rush on my account. I'm sure Mr. Hart here can keep you… entertained." She smirked, then turned on her heel, her lab coat swishing.
Lucas exhaled.
"She doesn't like you."
"Tara doesn't like anyone who isn't her mirror," Elena said, already gathering Yvonne's charts.
"And right now, that's you."
He didn't move.
"I'll be at the boardroom until six. Don't make me wait."
She didn't answer.
By the time she looked up, he was gone.
The realtor's office smelled of peppermint and old paper.
Elena stamped snow off her boots, her breath visible in the cold air.
"Ms. Frost!" Mrs.
Delaney, the agent, hurried over, her cheeks pink from the chill.
"The owner's here. He's been waiting."
Elena's stomach flipped.
He.
The owner was a man?
She followed Mrs.
Delaney to a back office, where a figure stood by the window, hands in his pockets.
Lucas turned.
"Surprised?" he asked, his tone flat.
Elena's throat closed.
"You… own 14 Birchwood Lane?"
"Bought it five years ago," he said.
"Quiet place. Good for thinking."
She took a step back.
"Why didn't you say anything?"
"Because I wanted to see how badly you wanted it." His voice hardened.
"Why do you want it, Elena? To run? To hide from what's happening here? From me?"
"I'm not hiding," she lied.
He laughed, bitter.
"You've been hiding since the day you left Harvard. Disappeared without a word. Now you're a doctor, a Hart employee—"
"Hart employee?" She stared.
"You know?"
"That you're Henry's daughter? The heir he never acknowledged? Yes." He closed the distance between them, his eyes blazing.
"I know everything, Elena. And I'm done letting you slip through my fingers."
Before she could speak, he cupped her face, his lips crashing down on hers.
The kiss was wild, desperate—years of unsaid words, of anger and longing, pouring out.
She kissed him back, her hands fisting in his suit jacket, forgetting the cold, the snow, the world.
Then he pulled away, breathing hard.
"You want to run? Fine. But know this—I'll chase you. Every time."
He turned, leaving the office as abruptly as he'd entered.
Elena pressed a hand to her lips, her pulse roaring in her ears.
Through the window, she watched him stride into the snow, his back rigid.
Her phone buzzed again.
A text from Siri: Francesca just texted—her art show's canceled.
She's at the penthouse, drowning in wine.
You might want to check on her.
Elena closed her eyes.
Another storm, brewing.
But for now, all she could feel was the ghost of Lucas's kiss, and the snow, falling, falling, falling.

Chapter 3 A Stranger at the Doorstep in the Snow
The penthouse's floor-to-ceiling windows frame