✺✺✺
THERE WAS A STORM COMING.
Paris could see it in the way the clouds bunched and gathered, coiling with snow and energy. The white flakes fell harder, fiercer, coating the ground in a thick blanket that was almost up to her knees through the window.
The snow had always been Paris's favourite part of Christmas.
"Paris, how are you doing? I miss you."
"Mom," Paris sighed into the phone.
"Don't Mom me like that. Are you coming over for Christmas, baby?"
Paris traced the window with her fingertip, outlining the pine trees and the lake in the distance.
"No, Mom," she said. "You know that already. I have to—"
"To take care of the kids, I know. You say the same thing every year."
"And every year, the kids are still here."
Her mother's voice crackled over the phone. "You do have a life outside of work, you know. Baby, we miss you at home. Me and Paul and Georgia."
Paul—her stepfather. Georgia—their Alaskan malamute.
"I know, Mom," Paris said. "Maybe I'll come home this weekend."
"Oh, don't you dare," said her mother. "Have you looked outside lately? That's a blizzard coming. I don't want you anywhere near a car this week."
"It probably won't be that bad," Paris soothed. "I can still—"
"Baby, you won't be going out in that snow, and that's a promise. Don't even try it. But can I expect you home for New Year's Eve?"
"Of course you can, Mom," Paris lied.
✺✺✺
"HEY, MICHAEL." PARIS SAT DOWN ON THE SIDE OF HIS bed, looking over her chart. "Guess what?"
"What?" Michael said in his familiar rasp.
"You're cleared for the holidays," she said.
"Wait, for real?" he said, sitting up. His eyes were vivid and too-bright. "You're gonna let me go home?"
Paris nodded, trying to contain her smile.
"You're healthy to go home for Hanukkah," she said. "All seven days. You got this, buddy."
"No way," he said, grinning so hard the tube over his nose bent.
"That's right. Your parents are flying in a week after December starts, and you'll be gone for the next seven days. How does that sound?"
Michael slammed his book shut—A Brief History of Time. Stephen Hawking.
"I . . . I can't believe it," he rasped. "Thank you so much, Paris."
This was her favourite part of the job.
Taking care of these kids meant she saw them in their worst moments. When their lungs were full of fluid and they couldn't breathe and they were spasming and vomiting and crying too hard to stop for hours.
So moments like this—when a real smile lit up Michael's face?
It made it all worth it.
Her dream had always been to change the world. But if she changed even just one life for the better, Paris knew every single ounce of grief and fear and exhaustion was worth it.
If only it weren't for the king's words echoing in her ears.
I don't care what rules you broke. I don't care who you take on as a patient. But if that interferes with you taking care of my daughter, then I promise, Paris Alvarez Young, you will never work another day as a doctor again.
A clear, blatant threat.
The words kept replaying in her head.
You will never work another day as a doctor again.
Even though Paris and Rory had attended boarding school together for six years, Paris had never once glimpsed the king.
On holidays, breaks, it was always a sleek black limousine that arrived for the princess. The king's secretary, but never him.
She had met Declan once, though.
He was an older version of Rory—handsome, with a charming, magnetic grin. Curly, bronze hair and eyes like burnt sienna.
Slouching against the train compartment, hands shoved in his pockets, that day he had said, "What's up, Rory? Paris?"
Paris had blushed. They had never met, but somehow he knew about her. Which meant . . . which meant Rory had talked about her enough that he could recognize her.
And she must have used real details, too—there was no hesitation, no doubt, in Declan's words. He knew he was right.
Her heart—there was a real squeeze in her heart.
When Paris looked up, Rory had avoided her eyes. Biting her bottom lip.
And the faintest touch of pink had brightened the princess's cheeks.
That was the day Paris had first started falling in love.
But she would always keep that memory, not only for that—but for Declan. Because it was hard to reconcile that version of Rory's brother with the one that had been accused of raping a sixteen year old girl.
✺✺✺
"I WANT TO TALK TO YOU," RORY SAID.
"What is it?" Paris said, flicking through the papers on her charts. Trying to seem disinterested.
Arrogant, spoiled, selfish.
Those words were enough to tether her to her hatred. She couldn't just forget these past five years, and how things had ended between them.
Even if the sight of Rory made her heart skip a beat.
"About my injuries," she said. "What's the earliest I can possibly get out of here?"
"Is recovering from your reckless snowboarding accident too much work for you, Princess?"
"No, I just . . . wanted to attend a ball."
Why was Paris surprised? Just because they had shared something meaningful earlier, just because Rory looked at her that way . . . it didn't mean she was anything but the careless, heartbreaking playboy she had always been.
"A ball," Paris said scathingly.
"The Charity Gala," Rory continued. "It's . . . important to me. I wanted to be there because . . . well, it's not that important anymore."
"No, tell me. I insist."
Rory was sitting in her bed, running her fingertips along the edge of her cast. "I was just going to make a donation," she said carefully.
Paris knew Rory well enough not to press her anymore. Whatever it was, it was important to her.
With a sigh, Paris set down her chart board on the side table. The thud snapped Rory's attention to her.
"You have a shattered kneecap and a dozen minor fractures," Paris said. "You're not recovering enough to walk on your own for months. But if you want a faster way . . . there is a surgery that can be performed on you. With iron rods in your right leg, you might just be able to make it to the Charity Gala in a month."
Rory's mouth opened, but Paris cut her off again.
"And that's if you're ready to fail. Because it will be hard. It will be so hard you'll want to give up, more than a hundred times. I don't know if you're up to that."
"When can I have it?"
"How important is this to you, Rory?"
Rory glanced away. "I need to do this. I need to be there."
Paris didn't ask why, though the curiosity sparked inside of her like a match against kerosene. She just said, "I'll see what I can do."
"And, Paris . . ."
Paris had already stood up, holding her chart to her chest. It was time for Gloria's checkup, but when Rory said her name, she turned.
Paris.
A shiver of warmth rippled beneath her skin.
Rory's eyes—burnt sienna—shone bright when Paris looked back. Trapping her in a haze of liquid gold light. "You were right."
"About what?"
"My pride."
Paris hesitated. "And?"
"And I never should have stopped fighting for you. I know that now."
"Rory . . . it's too late to change the past."
The princess's jaw flexed into a sharp line.
"Tell me, then," she challenged. "Tell me you don't have any feelings for me. Tell me you're still not attracted to me. Tell me there's nothing between us, and I'll never ask again. I'll never say another vulgar joke. I won't touch you again."
Tell me there's nothing.
And Paris . . . she couldn't do that.
She couldn't say it.
The words crawled up her throat—I don't feel anything for you—but they stayed there. Engraved into her tongue.
She couldn't say it.
And that silence . . . it was confirmation.
Softly, fiercely, Rory said, "Then this isn't over. And this time, I won't let my pride get in the way. Believe me, Paris, I'm not going to stop fighting for you. And I swear on my life, I won't let you go again. Not if I can help it."
✺✺✺
"SHE SAID WHAT?"
Paris buried her face in her hands, rocking back on her heels. Miserably, she nodded to Alec. "You heard me."
"Give in, girl. It's clear you're still madly in love with her."
"Are you crazy, Alec?" Paris hissed. "I am not madly in love with her. I don't even like her!"
Alec raised an eyebrow. "Keep telling yourself that. In the meantime, I've got a date tonight with a hot piece of ass."
"What? Who?"
"That absolutely gorgeous bodyguard of hers."
"You mean, Simon Leveque?"
Alec's white teeth flashed. "Exactly."
✺✺✺
WHEN PARIS'S SHIFT ENDED, SHE WAS STILL thinking about what Rory had said. The promise to keep fighting for her.
Absolutely ridiculous, she wanted to scoff.
It had been less than a week since Rory had arrived.
But the attraction between them was . . . it was undeniable, and even Paris couldn't pretend otherwise.
Don't think about it.
Her forty-eight hour shift was over. She didn't have to think of a cocky princess or the meeting with the king or the possibility that she might get fired because Tasha was her patient.
She could just go home.
Home—home to a condo in the city of Vancouver that she barely ever used.
Most nights, she just slept in the on-call room. But tonight . . . it would be nice to lay back in her bed and pretend.
Pretend that the last week hadn't happened. Pretend that Rory had never come back into her life. It would be so much easier.
Because loving Rory?
It had been exhilarating. It had been passionate.
They were teenagers, and they had loved hard.
But losing Rory . . .
It had hurt her heart in a way that she didn't think could ever be mended. And five years later, she was still stitching back the broken pieces.
Rory had cheated on her.
Cheated—on the exact same day Paris had said, I love you.
The princess had never loved her. And even if she was full of these promises about pride and fighting and letting her go, it was clear they were empty.
Rory Preston was entitled.
She had never fought for anything in her life.
And she hadn't fought for Paris the day it had all ended.
The one time where it mattered, Rory hadn't fought for her. That was where it counted. And that was why Paris didn't think she could ever trust her again.
✺✺✺
So I revealed a little something. Did you notice?
This chapter is for you, Nay. Our resident detective/judge.
From the moon and back,
Sarai