Page 6 of The Sculptor

Hell, stop taking new clients.

You have worked too hard to see clients in their offices and not yours.

Maybe Vance is right. Perhaps the practice is fine, and I’m worried over nothing.

My stomach clenches. Even if the practice is okay, Astor needs time to adjust to being a new, single father. And Vance, while he’s much better since the lawsuit was resolved, I still worry he’s one case away from another breakdown.

And I can’t risk losing him again.

“If you’ll follow me, Dr. Potter.” The woman steps in front of me, interrupting my thoughts, and begins leading me down the hall. We pass several rooms, which I don’t bother looking in. They’re all the same: a grand statement of wealth. I should know; I was raised in this opulent society where it was more about the presence of power than the love of family. Children raised in these homes—at least in my experience—were merely props for the Christmas card. They weren’t cherished additions to the family.

“Congressman Albrecht is right through here.” The woman opens the door, and a thick stench of smoke wafts out through the opening.

“Potter, my boy! Come in, come in.”

The stout man a few feet in front of me has a receding hairline and more wrinkles than a cotton sheet, which, I suppose, is great for long-term business.

“How have you been?”

He speaks to me like we’ve known each other for years and spent summers at the Hamptons together, not that I’m meeting him for the first time since his friend, Senator Lefroy, referred him to me two weeks ago.

I step forward and take his hand. “I’ve been well. Thank you for asking.” I don’t have time for pleasantries, so I stick to why I’m here. “Your secretary booked a consult and Botox injections.”

The Congressman offers me a wicked grin. “Straight to business—a man after my own heart.”

Spare me.

“I like my patients to get their money’s worth,” I lie.

He nods, almost giddily. “Sweetheart, come meet our guest.”

Great. Another bored wife.

Pulling in a deep breath, I set my bag down on the floor at the sound of high heels clicking against wood, drawing closer.

Find your charm, Duke. Your give-a-shit. A paying customer is a paying customer. It doesn’t matter if you like him or his wife. It’s simply business.

“Come, darling.”

I’m still staring at the ground when the congressman shuffles someone in front of me. And inch by inch, I take in her red shoes, my eyes moving up her form-fitting evening gown, as my body straightens to its full height. But it isn’t until I get to her cherry-stained lips and wide green eyes that I stop breathing.

Every muscle in my body clenches at the mere sight of her.

Red hair that once fanned over my pillow.

Hands that gripped my cheeks and promised me forever.

No. It can’t be.

She would never be here—not with Congressman Albrecht.

But then our eyes lock, and every memory I’ve tried to drown comes flooding back.

Holding her as she screamed.

Begging her to stay.

Waiting… when she never came.

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