Too Late, Ex: I Chose The Uncle

"Miss, you're the one from the university? We need somebody to take responsibility here. The trauma bay is strictly for active emergencies-if these two don't get their admission sorted or moved up to private suites soon, we'll have to discharge them into the hallway."

Keira Henson stood on the gleaming hospital floor, her fingers clenched so tightly into her palms that her fingernails bit into the flesh. She had rushed straight from campus without changing-an oversized sky-blue knit sweater over black leggings and salt-stained winter boots. At five-foot-five, she was slender and leggy, but right now, trembling against the radiator heat of the trauma ward, she looked fragile, thoroughly undone by sheer panic.

Forty minutes ago, the department dean's office had called. Outside, the city was locked in sub-zero frost after yesterday's sleet, but inside, the air was suffocatingly warm. Keira glanced at her wristwatch every few seconds, her pulse hammering against her ribs. She was only twenty-four, an untenured substitute instructor whose teacher certification exam was just around the corner. A violent brawl involving her students and boyfriend wasn't just a reprimand-it was career suicide.

The heavy double doors swung open, and an attending physician in a wrinkled white coat stepped out, yanking his surgical mask down beneath his chin. Keira lunged forward.

"Doctor... how are the two patients?"

The doctor stopped, looking at her over the rim of his glasses with an exhausted, shrewd appraisal. "Are you family to the patients?"

"Yes," Keira managed, her voice scraping against her parched throat.

"Which one?"

Heat rushed violently up her neck, staining her pale cheeks a mortified crimson. She had to swallow down the nausea twice before she could force out the truth: "...One is my boyfriend. The other is my student."

The doctor's eyebrows shot up. A dry, knowing chuckle escaped his lips as he shook his head. "Young men and their testosterone. They take one look at each other and turn an entire terrace café on the campus square into a demolition site. One took a blow to the chest and cracked a rib. The other has a fractured tibia, plus whatever wood splinters we're picking out of their faces. Were they swinging solid mahogany chairs at each other?"

Keira froze, her spine stiffening in cold dread.

"Anyway, go down to billing," the doctor continued, thumbing dismissively toward the administration wing. "Both need overnight observation. But since the younger patient is admitted under an executive family trust policy, administration needs his emergency family contact or the policy guarantor down here immediately to sign the admission guarantee."

Keira nodded mechanically, her stomach plunging into a bottomless abyss. A desperate, irrational prayer clawed at her chest-please, let it be Alexandre who took the worse hit. Let the student be the one with the cracked rib.

"...Doctor," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "The fractured tibia-which one is that?"

A nurse stepped through the doors just then, handing two plastic intake clipboards to the physician. The doctor flipped the top sheet, glancing down cursorily.

"Camren Durham."

Keira's vision went pitch black at the edges. A sickening wave of icy nausea crashed through her skull. In that dizzying instant, she wished, with every remaining shred of her pride, that the waxed linoleum would crack open and swallow her whole.

---

Midtown. The Durham Tower.

When the private line on the senior secretary's console chimed, her composure cracked just enough for her step to hitch. At that exact moment, the double mahogany doors of the executive boardroom were wrenched open from within, and a dozen senior vice presidents filed out in hushed, pale-faced haste, clutching their leather folders like shields.

Swallowing her apprehension, the secretary stepped swiftly into the expansive chamber.

At the far end of the immense mahogany conference table, a man sat facing the floor-to-ceiling glass wall, his back to the entrance. From behind, his long legs were crossed in an effortless, immaculate posture, exuding an absolute, leisurely authority. One arm rested casually along the dark timber, his lean, elegant fingers pressed against his temple.

Outside, the midtown skyline was frozen under a harsh winter gale, yet he wore only a crisp, tailored white shirt. The stark linen clung to the broad span of his shoulders, effortlessly restraining the lethal, dormant power in his frame.

Hearing the muffled cadence of her heels, he turned slowly.

It was late afternoon. The low winter sun cut through the snow-cleared glass on the twenty-second floor, spilling liquid gold over the crown of his dark hair and carving his patrician features into sharp, breathtaking relief. Even after years of serving at his side, the secretary still felt that familiar, involuntary catch in her throat. At thirty-seven, Augustin Durham possessed a face that was strikingly handsome, but it was his chilling composure-and the sheer weight of a man who ruled empires-that kept everyone around him walking on ice.

"Mr. Durham."

Augustin didn't lift his gaze immediately. With an unhurried flick of his thumb, the wheel of his antique silver lighter sparked. A slender cigarette caught fire, and he drew the smoke inward, his expression unreadable beneath the gray haze.

"A call just came through from Camren's university-the dean of student affairs," the secretary reported, keeping her voice strictly modulated. "They report that Camren was involved in a severe altercation on campus. He's currently admitted at the medical center."

Through the drifting veil of smoke, Augustin's dark, razor-edged eyes finally lifted, narrowing by a fraction. A dangerous stillness settled over the room. He reached up, loosening his collar button by a single notch, and rose to his feet. Tall, lean, and imposing, his physical presence filled the vast expanse with suffocating ease.

When he spoke, his voice was a low, velvet baritone, deceptively calm yet laden with quiet gravity:

"Why is he in a hospital?"

"...They're saying an altercation," she answered carefully. "A fractured leg."

---

Back in the fluorescent-lit corridor, Keira stood before the elevator bank, watching the crimson digital numbers tick downward in absolute numbness.

She opened her canvas tote, pulled out her modest leather wallet, and flipped open the fold. Inside lay five hundred dollars in cash-all the ready currency she had on hand, and her debit account wouldn't clear a major hospital deposit before the month's stipend landed. She bit her lower lip until the metallic tang of blood touched her tongue. In an elite private medical center like this, five hundred dollars wouldn't even cover the initial intake scans or a single night's deposit in a private suite, let alone provide for two grown men from rival worlds.

Just as the helplessness threatened to choke the breath from her lungs, the phone inside her coat pocket began to vibrate against her ribs.

A distinct, custom ringtone sliced through the sterile hum of the hall-a melody she had handpicked four years ago, exclusively for Alexandre. She didn't need to look at the glowing screen to know who was calling.

Four years ago, during those endless midnight phone calls when they talked until dawn, she used to believe his voice was the gentlest, sweetest sound on earth.

Now, the familiar melody sounded like a cold, mocking blade, twisting in her chest until every beat felt like an open wound.