"Ms. Vance, I cannot in good conscience authorize your discharge," Dr. Evans said, his voice echoing sharply in the sterile, curtained alcove of the ER. He held a thick plastic clipboard against his chest like a shield, his expression a mix of professional frustration and genuine alarm. "Your tropon

Julian Thorne pushed through the glass doors of the Thorne-Vance building, a massive iced coffee in one hand and his phone in the other. His head pounded with the dull, throbbing ache of a stress hangover. He had barely slept. Sloane’s apartment had been an absolute disaster—a burst pipe had flooded

"The server crash is honestly just a minor hiccup," Sloane Mercer said, her voice dripping with an unearned, glossy confidence that grated against the walls of the executive boardroom. She leaned forward, resting her perfectly manicured hands on the mahogany table. "If anything, we can spin this. We