Page 84 of Infamous
“I’m not interested.”
“It’s not what you think,” he insists. “This isn’t about dinner. It’s about opportunity. You’re one of the most promising surgeons at St. Elizabeth’s. With my backing, you could be running your own hospital in a year.”
His words sound like they’re perfectly rehearsed. But there’s a weight behind them, something that makes my pulse jump in warning.
I force a tight smile. “That’s generous, senator. But I’m happy where I am.”
He studies me for a moment, his eyes going darker, colder. The smile stays fixed, but there’s steel underneath now. “Ambition can take you far, Dr. Reed,” he says quietly. “But knowing the right people takes you further. You’d be wise not to close doors before you’ve looked behind them.”
I take his words for what they are - threat, warning.
I hold his gaze, my heartbeat steady in my ears. “And some doors,” I reply, “aren’t worth opening.”
For a moment, neither of us moves. The car engine hums between us, a low growl beneath the calm.
Finally, I take a step back. “If you’ll excuse me, senator, I really do have things to do.”
He nods once, slow, his smile never reaching his eyes. “Of course. Another time, perhaps.”
“Not likely.”
I turn on my heel and start walking, feeling the weight of his gaze on my back. I don’t look over my shoulder, but I hear the faint click of the window rolling back up. The car doesn’t move. It just idles there, engine purring, watching me.
When I finally reach the corner, I exhale a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding.
My hands are trembling. Not out of fear, but from a deep, instinctive understanding that something isn’t right.
Because men like the senator don’t chase women for dinner.
Men like him don’t circle you politely, don’t “just happen” to be near your workplace twice in one week, then accost you near your residence. Men like him aren’t persistent out of charm - they’re persistent because they believe they’re entitled to the yes you haven’t given them.
As I cross the street and disappear into the hum of bodies, I feel that truth crawl up the back of my neck like cold breath. I let the crowd swallow me whole, weaving through strangers, letting their noise drown out the echo of his voice - but it doesn’t help.
Because no matter how far I walk, no matter how many people I hide behind, I can’t shake the feeling that he’s still watching me.
The grocery storeis loud with the ordinary chaos of life - shopping carts squeaking, fruit bins being refilled, a kid crying somewhere near the dairy section. I try to let the noise drown out the whirlwind in my head. After last night, I need something simple, grounding. I’m starving, sore, and more confused than I’ve ever been in my life.
So I focus on the most mindless task I can think of - buying fruit.
I stand by the citrus display, rolling an orange between my palms, checking for softness, for flaws. It’s absurdly domestic, but the act feels soothing. Normal. Something I can control.
Then a hand appears beside mine - large, powerful, veins running like rivers beneath the skin. It holds out another orange, perfectly round, sun-warmed from the display.
“This one looks like it could be juicy,” a deep voice says.
The sound shoots straight through me. I’d know that voice anywhere.
I turn, and there he is. Jude Mercer. Standing beside me like he belongs here. For a second, I forget how to breathe.
“What are you doing here?” I manage, my voice thinner than I want it to be.
He gives me that half-smile that’s equal parts charm and warning. “Same thing you’re doing.”
“Buying fruit?”
“Helping you,” he corrects easily, his gaze steady.
“At thesame supermarket?” I ask, incredulous.
