E L A R A

The warmth of dawn is still on my skin and hours later, I can still feel that cliff under my feet, the ocean breaking open beneath us, Adrian’s hand wrapped around mine like he wasn’t scared anymore, like neither of us were. It’s ridiculous, but I keep touching the inside of my palm as I walk into the clinic, half-expecting to find his imprint there. I’m still replaying it when Asha calls from the front desk.

“Doctor? This… uh, this is for you, they brought it straight here.”

She holds out a small envelope, cream-colored, edges wrinkled from humidity. My full name written across the front in the loopy handwriting I grew up watching on birthday cards and sticky-note reminders. My throat goes tight, it’s from Mara, and Mara doesn’t write unless something’s wrong. I tear it open before I can breathe.

The paper inside is soft from being handled too many times, the kind of wear that happens when someone hesitates before sending something. My sister never hesitates. She barrels, she rants and she sends five voice notes that sound like she’s pacing a trauma bay, but this letter, feels careful, and scared.

Larie,
I’m not calling because I know you won’t answer if your shift is heavy, so I’m writing instead. I shouldn’t say anything but I have to. Something’s off and I don’t want you blindsided.

My stomach drops, she only calls me Larie when she’s worried, and when she’s trying not to spook me.

There’s talk about you online, hospital circles and donor circles. Your name is tied to the resort now, some article about “the doctor who saved a drowning teen” and another about you “shutting down” some luxury event. It’s all spreading through the wrong networks.

My pulse spikes and I skim faster.

Be careful. You know how people twist a woman’s work into drama, and if this man.. this Adrian.. is as high-profile as he sounds, you need to think. Really think.

My eyes sting, stupid and sudden, but of  course she’s heard of him. The internet probably chewed the story into a dozen versions: the storm, the cliff, the clinic, the lagoon incident, and me, always me in the middle.

If you fall for him, it won’t just be love, it’ll be politics. It’ll be the Valcrosse name, it’ll be every donor, every investor, every board member who decides you’re a liability or a tool,  and you deserve better than being anyone’s collateral.

My hands shake so hard I almost drop the letter, Mara doesn’t know the half of it. Not the sabotage, the board, the pressure grinding Adrian into something brittle. Not the way he held my hand on that last step like he wasn’t afraid anymore, like he wasn’t afraid of me anymore.

“Doctor?” Asha asks softly. “You okay?”

I nod, even though it’s a lie, I hold the letter tight against me, trying to keep myself together.

I sit on the edge of the clinic cot, the one we keep for staff breaks we never actually take, and force myself to read the rest. It feels like peeling skin.

I know you. You’ll say you can handle it. That you’ve lived through worse, but, Larie… NYC broke you. You haven’t admitted it, but it did, and I don’t want you running straight into another machine that chews up good people and spits them out.

I swallow hard, the words blur and sharpen again.

If this man is worth it, he won’t let you burn for him.  If he’s not… leave before you lose more than your job.

The room suddenly feels too small, too bright, too loud, even though it’s silent except for the air vent hum. My heart thuds in that uncomfortable way that feels like a warning. Mara’s not wrong, she never is, she knows how to tear right into the rot, even when I pretend I don’t have any. I force myself to read the last paragraph.

And Larie… one more thing. The Hale family’s been sniffing around the articles. Someone sent me screenshots and they’re interested. I don’t know if it’s coincidence or spite. Please, just.. protect yourself.
Love you.
Mara.

Nathan’s last name punches the air out of my lungs, I grip the side of the cot and breathe the way I teach patients to breathe: slow in, slow out, don’t pass out just because the past crawled out of its grave. I should’ve known they’d seen the articles and they circle fast.  Nathan hated when he wasn’t in control, he’d reshape the story until I was at fault for everything. The weak link and  the mistake. My hands tremble as I fold the letter slowly, as if careful movements could erase any of it.

The cliff this morning feels a lifetime away. The dawn, the way Adrian stood behind me like he was choosing me, not out of pressure, not out of need, but out of want. And all I can hear now is Mara’s voice:

If he’s worth it, he won’t let you burn for him.

God. I don’t know if I’m strong enough to test that.

I stand up too fast and the room tilts, then steadies, but the rest of me doesn’t. I need air. Not outside, I’m not ready to face the island. Just… space. Somewhere to breathe without the letter staring at me like it knows what choice I’m leaning toward. I close myself in the supply room, small, dim, crammed with linens and half-stocked shelves. It smells like cotton and eucalyptus wipes but safe enough and quiet enough.

I press my back to the wall and slide down until I’m sitting again, the letter balled in my fist. I don’t mean to speak out loud, but it just spills out.

“I can’t be the reason they destroy him,” I murmured, voice raw. “I can’t be the thing they use against him.”

My fingers knot in my scrub pants, “He’s got so much at stake, the board, the island, his family’s legacy.” My voice shakes; I hate that it betrays me.

“And I’m just a doctor who pissed off the wrong people once and barely crawled out alive.” I dropped my head into my hands.

“He deserves someone who won’t cost him everything,” I whisper. “Someone clean, someone safe.” and then the words that slice their way out, awful and soft:

“Maybe I should step back. Maybe we were a mistake.”

I hear how it sounds, I hear how it hurts, but saying it feels like ripping off a tourniquet, necessary, even if it bleeds. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying not to fall apart in a room full of linens, and that’s when I feel it,  the shift in the air and the presence behind me.

My whole body jolts, I lift my head slowly, like maybe if I move too fast the moment will shatter into something I can’t repair. Adrian stands in the doorway leaning against the frame like he walked in by accident and then realized he’d stepped into something private.

His face is empty at first and completely unreadable and somehow that’s worse than anger and disappointment. It’s the look of a man who doesn’t know what to feel because the words he just heard hit too deep to process.

I force myself to breathe. “Adrian..”

But he doesn’t blink and he doesn’t even flinch, instead his eyes drop to the letter crumpled in my hand, then lift back to my face, and then, God, when he swallows, his jaw locking tight and a small sound hits me like something breaking.

“You think we’re a mistake.” Not a question, but a verdict.

“That’s not..” My voice breaks. I push to stand, but my legs feel unsteady, heavy. He lifts a hand, just barely, like he’s bracing for impact or for truth.

“Tell me I heard it wrong,” he says quietly. He’s not angry, not even close because it’s worse, he’s hurt, and trying so damn hard to mask it. I move toward him, he retreats a step, and suddenly the space between us feels fragile, like it could shatter.

“Adrian, please,” I whisper. “Let me explain.”

But he’s already retreating, not dramatically, not slamming doors,  just taking one step, then another. Slow, controlled and terrifying. Like he’s deciding whether to stay… or walk away before I can hurt him again. He turns his head slightly, just enough for me to see the flicker in his eyes, something breaking, then shuttering closed.

“Elara,” he says, voice raw, “if that’s how you really feel…”

He doesn’t finish the sentence, he doesn’t need to. He just turns and steps out of the doorway, and the air seems to cave in after him.