The fluorescent lights of Westbridge Private Heart Hospital glimmered softly against the white walls as Nurse Anna Munro began her evening rounds. Something about that night felt different — heavier, charged with an unspoken urgency. When Dr. Harris, head of neurology, summoned her to his office, Anna braced herself.
He stood by the window, hands clasped behind his back, staring at the city below. “Anna,” he said quietly, “we have a patient who needs more than medical care. He needs someone who actually cares.”
The file on his desk read Grant Carter. Anna’s stomach sank. The name was everywhere — billionaire, tech genius, “fallen genius” after his sports car accident a year ago. Now, he lay motionless in a private hospital suite.
“I’ll do it,” she said, barely hesitating.
That night, she entered his suite — more luxury apartment than hospital room — and there he was, still, tubes and monitors surrounding him. He was striking, his jawline strong, his calmness almost surreal. As she checked his vitals, adjusted his IV, and brushed a warm cloth over his skin, she felt a pulse of awareness, subtle but undeniable, as if he somehow knew she was there.
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