She's a writer with a personality disorder
He's a doctor that has always followed the rules......until her.
Dr. Edward Chase has built his entire career on a foundation of rigid principles and unyielding discipline. A by-the-book surgeon, he prides...
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“And so she danced with darkness, Its rhythm and allure of emptiness one with her soul, Each step a silent symphony, A waltz with shadows that wrapped around her like a lover’s embrace.”
I meant what I said. I never thought Scrubbers had the time to read books when they were so busy saving lives and developing new medications. They always seem too absorbed in their work to indulge in such luxuries, too focused on their mission to make life easier for the sick.
But it wasn't just the way he spoke the words out loud. It was the marvelous color in his eyes, the sexiest shade of green I had ever seen, like the depths of an emerald catching the light. His lips, curving up and down as he spoke with such boldness, were mesmerizing, drawing my gaze to their every movement. While most people walked on eggshells around me, Dr. Edward Chase moved with a confident grace, each step measured and purposeful. His voice had a rich, velvety quality that sent shivers down my spine, making my insides melt, and his gaze shifted from a confusing blend of admiration and pure irritation. The air seemed to thrum with a palpable tension whenever he was near, a mix of magnetic attraction and maddening frustration.
Remarkable. Who knew admiration and irritation could fit in one sentence, hand in hand, together and separated all at once.
I drive to my family's estate, the Vaughn Estate, nestled in the most exclusive enclave of Lincoln Park. This sprawling mansion, the crown jewel of the largest and wealthiest community in the area, is owned by my father and overseen by a notoriously irritable board of directors. Despite its opulence, I've always preferred the anonymity and freedom of hotel living over the suffocating grandeur of our family home.
Tonight, however, is different. With Father confined to a hospital bed, the house promises to be blissfully free of Christian Vaughn's presence. As I navigate the winding, tree-lined driveway, the imposing façade of the estate looms ahead, its ornate stonework and manicured gardens bathed in the soft glow of the evening lights. Inside, the grand halls and lavish rooms, usually buzzing with the activity of high society, will be eerily quiet, offering a rare moment of solitude in a place that seldom knows peace.
I may have to deal with my older brother, but that is a small feat compared to the usual chaos. I pull up to the gates, where the name VAUGHN is proudly inscribed on the intricate wrought iron, a testament to the family's wealth and status. The gates swing open smoothly, and I drive in, the gravel crunching under the tires of my car as I make my way up the long, winding driveway. The estate, with its meticulously maintained lawns and grandiose architecture, stands as a silent guardian of our family's legacy. Not that I care.
My Prada heels click sharply against the marble floor as I step out of the car, taking in the imposing sight of my family's mansion. The building, with its stately columns and ivy-clad walls, seems almost as old as my brother Tristan, or perhaps even older, a testament to generations of wealth. The grand entrance hall, with its crystal chandeliers and sweeping staircase, exudes an air of timeless elegance, a stark contrast to the modern chaos of our lives.
